It was very dark as he turned at last into the familiar doorway, and mounted the dim staircase towards his own room—­the lodging he and Hugh Fitzjames shared together.  But just now Fitzjames was absent, paying one of his frequent visits to the Langtons.  Dalaber had spoken to him there only a short while since, and he was therefore surprised to see a line of light gleaming out from under his door; for, since he was out, who else could be in possession of his room?

Opening the door hastily, he uttered a cry of surprise and welcome, and advanced with outstretched hands.

“Master Garret!  You have come!”

The small, keen-faced priest with the eyes of fire came out of the circle of lamplight and took the extended hands.

“I have come, Anthony Dalaber; I have come, as I said.  Have you a welcome for me, and for mine errand?”

“The best of welcomes,” answered Dalaber, without a moment’s hesitation; “I welcome you for your own sake, and for that of the cause in which we both desire to live, and, if need be, to die.”

Yet even as he spoke the last word the young man’s voice faltered for a moment, and he felt a thrill of cold disquiet run, as it were, through his frame.  With Freda’s kiss of love upon his lips, how could he think of death?  No; life and light and love should be his portion.  Did not fair fortune smile upon him with favouring eyes?

The keen eyes of the elder man instantly detected that some inward misgiving was possessing him.  He spoke in his clear and cutting tones, so curiously penetrating in their quality.

“You speak of death, and then you shudder.  You are not prepared to lay down your life in the cause?”

Dalaber was silent for a moment; a flood of recollection overwhelmed him.  He heard a sweet voice speaking to him; he heard the very words used.

“Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.”

Suddenly he threw back his head and said: 

“In a good and righteous cause I would face death gladly without shrinking.”

The keen, flashing eyes were fixed full upon his face.  The clear voice spoke on in terse, emphatic phrases.

“Be sure of thyself, Anthony Dalaber.  Put not thy hand to the plough only to turn back.  So far thou art safe.  But I have come to do a work here that is charged with peril.  Thou needest have no hand in it.  Say the word, and I go forth from thy lodging and trouble thee no more.  I ask nothing.  I do but take thee at thy word.  If thy heart has failed or changed, only say so.  One word is enough.  There are other spirits in Oxford strong enough to stand the test.  I came first to thee, Anthony, because I love thee as mine own soul.  But I ask nothing of thee.  There is peril in harbouring such an one as I. Send me forth, and I will go.  So wilt thou be more safe.”