“Anthony, I beseech you to give it up.  I hate the whole matter, and fear it, too.”

“Fear it?  Why, I tell you, we hold them so.” (He stretched out his lean, young hand, and clenched the long fingers slowly together.) “We have them by the throat.  You will be glad enough to profit by it, when Mary reigns.  What is there to fear?”

“I do not know; I am uneasy.  But that is not to the purpose.  I tell you it is forbidden by God’s—­”

“Uneasy!  Fear it!  Why, tell me what there is to fear?  What hole can you find anywhere?”

“I do not know.  I hardly know the tale yet.  But it seems to me there might be a hundred.”

“Tell me one of them, then.”

Anthony threw himself back with an indulgent smile on his face.

“Why, if you will have it,” said Robin, roused by the contempt, “there is one great hole in this.  All hangs upon Gifford’s word, as it seems to me.  You have not spoken with Mary; you have not even her own hand on it.”

“Bah!  Why, her Grace of the Scots cannot write in cypher, do you think?”

“I do not know how that may be.  It may be so.  But I say that all hangs upon Gifford.”

“And you think Gifford can be a liar and a knave!” sneered Anthony.

“I have not one word against him,” said the priest.  “But neither had I against Thomas FitzHerbert; and you know what has befallen—­”

Anthony snorted with disdain.

“Put your finger through another hole,” he said.

“Well—­I like not the comfort that Mr. Secretary Walsingham has given you.  You told me a while ago that Ballard was on the eve of going to France.  Now Walsingham is no fool.  I would to God he were!  He has laid enough of our men by the heels already.”

“By God!” cried Anthony, roused again.  “I would not willingly call you a fool either, my man!  But do you not understand that Walsingham believes me as loyal as himself?  Here have I been at court for the last year, bowing before her Grace, and never a word said to me on my religion.  And here is Walsingham has bidden me to lodge in his house, in the midst of all his spider’s webs.  Do you think he would do that if—­”

“I think he might have done so,” said Robin slowly.

Anthony sprang to his feet.

“My Robin,” he said, “you were right enough when you said you would not join with us.  You were not made for this work.  You would see an enemy in your own father—­”

He stopped confounded.

Robin smiled drearily.

“I have seen one in him,” he said.

Anthony clapped him on the shoulder, not unkindly.

“Forgive me, my Robin.  I did not think what I said.  Well; we will leave it at that.  And you would not give me absolution?”

The priest shook his head.

“Then give me your blessing,” said Anthony, dropping on his knees.  “And so we will close up the quasi-sigillum confessionis.”