But Mistress Alice would not be put off.  She repeated what she had said.  Dick had come up from Dethick only that afternoon, and was now gone again, so that he could not be questioned; but he had told his mistress plainly that the story in Derby, brought in by couriers, was that Parliament had consented and had passed sentence on her Grace; that her Grace herself had received the news only the day before; but that the warrant was not signed.

“And on what charge?” asked Robin desperately.  Mistress Alice’s voice rang out proudly; but he saw her press the girl closer as she spoke.

“That she was privy to the plot which my ... my brother had a hand in.”

Then Robin drew a breath and decided.

“It may be so,” he said.  “But I do not believe she was privy to it.  I spoke with her Grace at Chartley—­”

There was a swift movement in the half circle.

“I spoke with her Grace at Chartley,” he said.  “I went to her under guise of a herbalist:  I heard her confession and gave her communion; and she declared publicly, before two witnesses, after she had had communion, that she was guiltless.”

* * * * *

Robin was no story-teller; but for half an hour he was forced to become one, until his hearers were satisfied.  Even here, in the distant hills, Mary’s name was a key to a treasure-house of mysteries.  It was through this country, too, that she had passed again and again.  It was at old Chatsworth—­the square house with the huge Italian and Dutch gardens, that a Cavendish had bought thirty years ago from the Agards—­that she had passed part of her captivity; it was in Derby that she had halted for a night last year; it was near Burton that she had slept two months ago on her road to Fotheringay; and to hear now of her, from one who had spoken to her that very autumn, was as a revelation.  So Robin told it as well as he could.

“And it may be,” he said, “that I shall have to go again.  Mr. Bourgoign said that he would send to me if he could.  But I have heard no word from him.” (He glanced round the watching faces.) “And I need not say that I shall hear no word at all, if the tale I have told you leak out.”

“Perhaps she hath a chaplain again,” said Mr. John, after pause.

“I do not think so,” said the priest.  “If she had none at Chartley, she would all the less have one at Fotheringay.”

“And it may be you will be sent for again?” asked Marjorie’s voice gently from the darkness.

“It may be so,” said the priest.

“The letter is to be sent here?” she asked.

“I told Mr. Bourgoign so.”

“Does any other know you are here?”

“No, Mistress Marjorie.”

There was a pause.

“It is growing late,” said Mr. John.  “Will your Reverence go upstairs with me; and these ladies will come after, I think.”

III