And so once more the sun went down, and the little rituals were performed, and the guards were changed, and M. Landet, for the last time in his life (though he did not know it), came out from the kitchen with his white rod to bear it before the dishes of a Queen; and Sir Amyas walked in from the orchard and was saluted, and Mr. FitzWilliam went his rounds, and the drawbridge was raised.  And, at the time that the drawbridge was raised, a young man on a horse was wondering when he should see the lights of Burton....

IV

The first that Mistress Manners knew of his coming in the early hours of Monday morning, was when she was awakened by Janet in the pitch darkness shaking her shoulder.

“It is a young man,” she said, “on foot.  His horse fell five miles off.  He is come with a letter from Derby.”

Sleep fell from Marjorie like a cloak.  This kind of thing had happened to her before.  Now and then such a letter would come from a priest who lacked money or desired a guide or information.  She sprang out of bed and began to put on her outer dress and her hooded cloak, as the night was cold.

“Bring him into the hall,” she said.  “Get beer and some food, and blow the fire up.”

Janet vanished.

When the mistress came down five minutes later, all had been done as she had ordered.  The turf and wood fire leaped in the chimney; a young man, still with his hat on his head and drawn down a little over his face, was sitting over the hearth, steaming like a kettle, eating voraciously.  Janet was waiting discreetly by the doors.  Marjorie nodded to her, and she went out; she had learned that her mistress’s secrets were not always her own as well.

“I am Mistress Manners,” she said.  “You have a letter for me?”

The young man stood up.

“I know you well enough, mistress,” he said.  “I am John Merton’s son.”

Marjorie’s heart leaped with relief.  In spite of her determination that this must be a letter from a priest, there had still thrust itself before her mind the possibility that it might be that other letter whose coming she had feared.  She had told herself fiercely as she came downstairs just now, that it could not be.  No news was come from Fotheringay all the winter; it was common knowledge that her Grace had a priest of her own.  And now that this was John Merton’s son—­

She smiled.

“Give me the letter,” she said.  “I should have known you, too, if it were not for the dark.”

“Well, mistress,” he said, “the letter was to be delivered to you, Mr. Melville said; but—­”

“Who?”

“Mr. Melville, mistress:  her Grace’s steward at Fotheringay.”

* * * * *

He talked on a moment or two, beginning to say that Mr. Melville himself had come out to the inn, that he, as Melville’s own servant, had been lodging there, and had been bidden to hold himself in readiness, since he knew Derbyshire....  But she was not listening.  She only knew that that had fallen which she feared.