Then they had him tight; his hands were twisted behind his back; an arm was flung round his neck; and another man, crouching, had his legs embraced.  He cried out once or twice....  The old man turned sick ... a great rush of blood seemed to be hammering in his ears and dilating his eyes....  He ran forward, tearing at the arm that was choking the prisoner’s throat, and screaming he knew not what.

And it was then that he knew for certain that this was his son.

CHAPTER VI

I

Robin drew a long breath as the door closed behind him.  Then he went forward to the table, and sat on it, swinging his feet, and looking carefully and curiously round the room, so far as the darkness would allow him; his eyes had had scarcely time yet to become accustomed to the change from the brilliant sunshine outside to the gloom of the prison.  It was his first experience of prison, and, for the present, he was more interested than subdued by it.

* * * * *

It seemed to him that a lifetime had passed since the early morning, up in the hills, when he had attempted to escape by the bedroom, and had been seized as he came out of the press.  Of course, he had fought; it was his right and his duty; and he had not known the utter uselessness of it, in that guarded house.  He had known nothing of what was going forward.  He had heard the entrance of the searchers below, and now and again their footsteps....  Then he had seen the wainscoting begin to gape before him, and had understood that his only chance was by the way he had entered.  Then, as he had caught sight of his father, he had ceased his struggles.

He had not said one word to him.  The shock was complete and unexpected.  He had seen the old man stagger back and sink on the bed.  Then he had been hurried from the room and downstairs.  As the party came into the buttery entrance, there had been a great clamour; the man on guard at the hall doors had run forward; the doors had opened suddenly and Marjorie had come out, with a surge of faces behind her.  But to her, too, he had said nothing; he had tried to smile; he was still faint and sick from the fight upstairs.  But he had been pushed out into the air, where he saw the horses waiting, and round the corner of the house into an out-building, and there he had had time to recover.

* * * * *

It was strange how little religion had come to his aid during that hour of waiting; and, indeed, during the long and weary ride to Derby.  He had tried to pray; but he had had no consolation, such as he supposed must surely come to all who suffered for Christ.  It had been, instead, the tiny things that absorbed his attention; the bundle of hay in the corner; an ancient pitch-fork; the heads of his guards outside the little barred window; the sound of their