“I must be riding, sir,” he said.

Mr. Audrey raised his hand to the latten bell that stood beside him on the table.

“I will take Anthony to his horse,” said Robin suddenly, for a thought had come to him.

“Then good-night, sir,” said Anthony, as he drew on his second boot and stood up.

* * * * *

The sky was all ablaze with stars now as they came out into the court.  On their right shone the high windows of the little hall where peace now reigned, except for the clatter of the boys who took away the dishes; and the night was very still about them in the grip of the frost, for the village went early to bed, and even the dogs were asleep.

Robin said nothing as they went over the paving, for his determination was not yet ripe, and Anthony was still aglow with his own talk.  Then, as the servant who waited for his master, with the horses, showed himself in the stable-arch with a lantern, Robin’s mind was made up.

“I have something to tell you,” he said softly.  “Tell your man to wait.”

“Eh?”

“Tell your man to wait with the horses.”

His heart beat hot and thick in his throat as he led the way through the screens and out beyond the hall and down the steps again into the pleasaunce.  Anthony took him by the sleeve once or twice, but he said nothing, and went on across the grass, and out through the open iron gate that gave upon the woods.  He dared not say what he had to say within the precincts of the house, for fear he should be overheard and the shame known before its time.  Then, when they had gone a little way into the wood, into the dark out of the starlight, Robin turned; and, as he turned, saw the windows of the hall go black as the boys extinguished the torches.

“Well?” whispered Anthony sharply (for a fool could see that the news was to be weighty, and Anthony was no fool).

It was wonderful how Robin’s thoughts had fixed themselves since his talk with Mistress Marjorie.  He had gone to Padley, doubting of what he should say, doubting what she would tell him, asking himself even whether compliance might not be the just as well as the prudent way.  Yet now black shame had come on him—­the black shame that any who was a Catholic should turn from his faith; blacker, that he should so turn without even a touch of the rack or the threat of it; blackest of all, that it should be his own father who should do this.  It was partly food and wine that had strengthened him, partly Anthony’s talk just now; but the frame and substance of it all was Marjorie and her manner of speaking, and her faith in him and in God.

He stood still, silent, breathing so heavily that Anthony heard him.

“Tell me, Rob; tell me quickly.”

Robin drew a long breath.

“You saw that my father was silent?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Stay....  Will you swear to me by the mass that you will tell no one what you will hear from me till you hear it from others?”