Robin rode away at last with a very clear idea of what he was to do in the immediate present, and with no idea at all of what was to be done later.  Marjorie had given him three things—­advice; a pair of beads that had been the property of Mr. Cuthbert Maine, seminary priest, recently executed in Cornwall for his religion; and a kiss—­the first deliberate, free-will kiss she had ever given him.  The first he was to keep, the second he was to return, the third he was to remember; and these three things, or, rather, his consideration of them, worked upon him as he went.  Her advice, besides that which has been described, was, principally, to say his Jesus Psalter more punctually, to hear mass whenever that were possible, to trust in God, and to be patient and submissive with his father in all things that did not touch divine love and faith.  The pair of beads that were once Mr. Maine’s, he was to keep upon him always, day and night, and to use them for his devotions.  The kiss—­well, he was to remember this, and to return it to her upon their next meeting.

A great star came out as he drew near home.  His path took him not through the village, but behind it, near enough for him to hear the barkings of the dogs and to smell upon the frosty air the scent of the wood fires.  The house was a great one for these parts.  There was a small gate-house before it, built by his father for dignity, with a lodge on either side and an arch in the middle, and beyond this lay the short road, straight and broad, that went up to the court of the house.  This court was, on three sides of it, buildings; the hall and the buttery and the living-rooms in the midst, with the stables and falconry on the left, and the servants’ lodgings on the right; the fourth side, that which lay opposite to the little gate-house, was a wall, with a great double gate in it, hung on stone posts that had, each of them, a great stone dog that held a blank shield.  All this later part, the wall with the gate, the stables and the servants’ lodgings, as well as the gatehouse without, had been built by the lad’s father twenty years ago, to bring home his wife to; for, until that time, the house had been but a little place, though built of stone, and solid and good enough.  The house stood half-way up the rise of the hill, above the village, with woods about it and behind it; and it was above these woods behind that the great star came out like a diamond in enamel-work; and Robin looked at it, and fell to thinking of Marjorie again, putting all other thoughts away.  Then, as he rode through into the court on to the cobbled stones, a man ran out from the stable to take his mare from him.

“Master Babington is here,” he said.  “He came half an hour ago.”

“He is in the hall?”

“Yes, sir; they are at supper.”

* * * * *