“In what place?”

“In the inn called the ‘Red Bull,’ in Cheapside.”

“Good.  I have lodged there myself,” said the other.  “And you are one—­”

“No, sir,” said Robin, “I do not deny that I spoke with them all—­with Mr. Charnoc and—­”

“That is enough of those names, sir,” said the other, with a small and fearful lift of his white eyebrows, as if he dreaded the very trees that nearly met overhead in this place.  “And what is your business?”

“I have satisfied you, then—­” began Robin.

“Not at all, sir.  You have answered sufficiently so far; that is all.  I wish to know your business.”

“The night following the day on which the men fled, of whom I have just spoken, I had a letter from—­from their leader.  He told me that all was lost, and he gave me a letter to her Grace here—­”

He felt the thin old sinews under his hand contract suddenly, and paused.

“Go on, sir,” whispered the old voice.

“A letter to her Grace, sir.  I was to use my discretion whether I carried it with me, or learned it by rote.  I have other interests at stake besides this, and I used my discretion, and destroyed the letter.”

“But you have some writing, no doubt—­”

“I have none,” said Robin.  “I have my word only.”

There was a pause.

“Was the message private?”

“Private only to her Grace’s enemies.  I will tell you the substance of it now, if you will.”

The old man, without answering, steered his companion nearer to the wall; then he relinquished the supporting arm, and leaned himself against the stones, fixing his eyes full upon the priest, and searching, as it seemed, every feature of his face and every detail of his dress.

“Was the message important, sir?”

“Important only to those who value love and fidelity.”

“I could deliver it myself, then?”

“Certainly, sir.  If you will give me your word to deliver it to her Grace, as I deliver it to you, and to none else, I will ride on and trouble you no more.”

“That is enough,” said the physician decidedly.  “I am completely satisfied, Mr. Alban.  All that remains is to consider how I can get you to her Grace.”

“But if you yourself will deliver—­” began Robin.

An extraordinary spasm passed over the other’s face, that might denote any fierce emotion, either of anger or grief.

“Do you think it is that?” he hissed.  “Why, man, where is your priesthood?  Do you think the poor dame within would not give her soul for a priest?...  Why, I have prayed God night and day to send us a priest.  She is half mad with sorrow; and who knows whether ever again in this world—­”

He broke off, his face all distorted with pain; and Robin felt a strange thrill of glory at the thought that he bore with him, in virtue of his priesthood only, so much consolation.  He faced for the first time that tremendous call of which he had heard so much in Rheims—­that desolate cry of souls that longed and longed in vain for those gifts which a priest of Christ could alone bestow....