I had meant the wars of the road, which, indeed, are as perilous and as venturesome as the high quarrels of ravening nations.
“I served in Flanders,” said I.
“My father fought for His Gracious Majesty Charles I,” says he quickly, “and took a deep wound at Marston Moor. There was never a braver man than Squire Masters of Rockham.”
“I’ll warrant his son is like him,” said I.
He bowed as if he were at Court. “Your servant, sir,” says he, smiling well pleased, and eyed me. “You have seen some service, sir?”
“Why, as much as will serve, Mr. Masters.”
He looked at me shyly. “You have my name, now?” said he, and left his question in the air.
“You may call me Ryder,” said I.
“You have had your company?” he went on in a hesitating voice.
“Not always as good company as this,” I replied, laughing.