It was after dinner, as Robin rose from the table in a parlour, where he had dined with two or three lawyers and an officer of Mr. FitzWilliam, that John Merton came to him and told him that a gentleman was waiting.  He went upstairs and found the priest, a little timorous-looking man, dressed like a minister, pacing quickly to and fro in the tiny room at the top of the house where John and he were to sleep.  The Frenchman seized his two hands and began to pour out in an agitated whisper a torrent of French and English.  Robin disengaged himself.

“You must sit down, M. de Preau,” he said, “and speak slowly, or I shall not understand one word.  Tell me precisely what I must do.  I am here to obey orders—­no more.  I have no design in my head at all.  I will do what Mr. Bourgoign and yourself decide.”

* * * * *

It was pathetic to watch the little priest.  He interrupted himself by a thousand apostrophes; he lifted hands and eyes to the ceiling repeatedly; he named his poor mistress saint and martyr; he cried out against the barbarian land in which he found himself, and the bloodthirsty tigers with whom, like a second Daniel, he himself had to consort; he expatiated on the horrible risk that he ran in venturing forth from the castle on such an errand, saying that Sir Amyas would wring his neck like a hen’s, if he so much as suspected the nature of his business.  He denounced, with feeble venom, the wickedness of these murderers, who would not only slay his mistress’s body, but her soul as well, if they could, by depriving her of a priest.  Incidentally, however, he disclosed that at present there was no plan at all for Robin’s admission.  Mr. Bourgoign had sent for him, hoping that he might be able to reintroduce him once more on the same pretext as at Chartley; but the incident of Monday, when the white rod had been forbidden, and the conversation of Sir Amyas to Mr. Melville had made it evident that an attempt at present would be worse than useless.

“You must yourself choose!” he cried, with an abominable accent.  “If you will imperil your life by remaining, our Lord will no doubt reward you in eternity; but, if not, and you flee, not a man will blame you—­least of all myself, who would, no doubt, flee too, if I but dared.”

This was frank and humble, at any rate.  Robin smiled.

“I will remain,” he said.

The Frenchman seized his hands and kissed them.

“You are a hero and a martyr, monsieur!  We will perish together, therefore.”

II

After the Frenchman’s departure, and an hour’s sleep in that profundity of unconsciousness that follows prolonged effort, Robin put on his sword and hat and cloak, having dressed himself with care, and went slowly out of the inn to inspect the battlefield.  He carried himself deliberately, with a kind of assured insolence, as if he had supreme rights in this place, and were one of that crowd of persons—­great lords, lawyers, agents of the court—­to whom for the last few months Fotheringay had become accustomed.  He turned first to the right towards the castle, and presently was passing down its long length.