Robin looked up again.  He remained quiet through all the story; and lifted no more than his eyes.  His fingers played continually with a button on his doublet.

“You mean that Queen Mary hath consented to this?”

“Why, yes!”

“To her sister’s death?”

“Why, yes!”

“I do not believe it,” said the priest quietly.  “On whose word does that stand?”

“Why, on her own!  Whose else’s?” snapped Anthony.

“You mean, you have it in her own hand, signed by her name?”

“It is in Gifford’s hand!  Is not that enough?  And there is her seal to it.  It is in cypher, of course.  What would you have?”

“Where is she now?” asked Robin, paying no attention to the question.

“She hath just now been moved again to Tixall.”

“For what?”

“I do not know.  What has that to do with the matter?  She will be back soon again.  I tell you all is arranged.”

“Tell me the rest of the story,” said the priest.

“There is not much more.  So it stands at present.  I tell you her Grace hath been tossed to and fro like a ball at play.  She was at Chatsworth, as you know; she has been shut up in Chartley like a criminal; she was at Babington House even.  God! if I had but known it in time!”

“In Babington House!  Why, when was that?”

“Last year, early—­with Sir Ralph Sadler, who was her gaoler then!” cried Anthony bitterly; “but for a night only....  I have sold the house.”

“Sold it!”

“I do not keep prisons,” snapped Anthony.  “I will have none of it!”

“Well?”

“Well,” resumed the other man quietly.  “I must say that when Ballard was taken—­”

“When was that?”

“Last week only.  Well, when he was taken I thought perhaps all was known.  But I find Mr. Walsingham’s conversation very comforting, though little he knows it, poor man!  He knows that I am a Catholic; and he was lamenting to me only three days ago of the zeal of these informers.  He said he could not save Ballard, so hot was the pursuit after him; that he would lose favour with her Grace if he did.”

“What comfort is there in that?”

“Why; it shows plain enough that nothing is known of the true facts.  If they were after him for this design of ours do you think that Walsingham would speak like that?  He would clap us all in ward—­long ago.”

The young priest was silent.  His head still whirled with the tale, and his heart was sick at the misery of it all.  This was scarcely the home-coming he had looked for!  He turned abruptly to the other.

“Anthony, lad,” he said, “I beseech you to give it up.”

Anthony smiled at him frankly.  His excitement was sunk down again.

“You were always a little soft,” he said.  “I remember you would have nought to do with us before.  Why, we are at war, I tell you; and it is not we who declared it!  They have made war on us now for the last twenty years and more.  What of all the Catholics—­priests and others—­who have died on the gibbet, or rotted in prison?  If her Grace makes war upon us, why should we not make war upon her Grace?  Tell me that, then!”