Then the rumour ran through the crowd, and spent itself at last in the corner where the priest stood trembling with wrath and pity.

“She is in the hall.”

It was impossible to know whether this were true, or whether she had not been there half an hour already.  The horror was that all might be over, or not yet begun, or in the very act of doing.  He had thought that there would be some pause or warning—­that a signal would be given, perhaps, that all might bare their heads or pray, at this violent passing of a Queen.  But there was none.  The heads surged and quieted; murmurs burst out and died again; and all the while the hateful, insolent melody rose and fell; the horns bellowed; the drums crashed.  It sounded like some shocking dance-measure; a riot of desperate spirits moved in it, trampling up and down, as if in one last fling of devilish gaiety....

* * * * *

Then suddenly the heads grew still; a wave of motionlessness passed over them, as if some strange sympathy were communicated from within those tall windows.  The moments passed and passed.  It was impossible to hear those murmurs, through the blare of the instruments; there was one sound only that could penetrate them; and this, rising from what seemed at first the wailing of a child, grew and grew into the shrill cries of a dog in agony.  At the noise once more a roar of low questioning surged up and fell.  Simultaneously the music came to an abrupt close; and, as if at a signal, there sounded a great roar of voices, all shouting together within the hall.  It rose yet louder, broke out of doors, and was taken up by those outside.  The court was now one sea of tossing heads and open mouths shouting—­as if in exultation or in anger.  Robin fought for his place on the projecting stones, clung to the rough wall, gripped a window-bar and drew himself yet higher.

Then, as he clenched himself tight and stared out again towards the tall windows that shone in bloody flakes of fire from the roaring logs within; a sudden and profound silence fell once more before being shattered again by a thousand roaring throats....

For there, in full view beyond the clear glass stood a tall, black figure, masked to the mouth, who held in his out-stretched hands a wide silver dish, in which lay something white and round and slashed with crimson....

PART IV

CHAPTER I

I

“There is no more to be said, then,” said Marjorie, and leaned back, with a white, exhausted face.  “We can do no more.”

* * * * *

It was a little council of Papists that was gathered—­a year after the Queen’s death at Fotheringay—­in Mistress Manners’ parlour.  Mr. John FitzHerbert was there; he had ridden up an hour before with heavy news from Padley and its messenger.  Mistress Alice was there, quiet as ever, yet paler and thinner than in former years (Mistress Babington herself had gone back to her family last year).  And, last, Robin himself was there, having himself borne the news from Derby.