“He is a good man and a true,” said the priest.  “Thou wilt do well to keep his friendship an thou mayest.  Catesby and Trevlyn come of a good stock; it were well they should consort together.”

Cuthbert recalled some of the strange words spoken by Master Robert on the road, and wondered if he recalled them aright.  They seemed to partake of the character of fierce threats.  He was not certain that he altogether relished the thought of such friendship.

“Mine uncle might not wish me to consort with him,” said the lad, with a little hesitation.  “He is but a wool stapler, as I have told thee, and his friends are simple folks like himself.  He meddles not in matters that gentlefolks love.  He has no fine company to his house.  Since it be my lot to abide beneath his roof—­”

“Thou must needs conform to his ways; is that so, boy?” asked the Father, interrupting the rather lame and confused speech, and smiling as he did so.  “Ay, conform, conform!  Conformity is the way of the world today!  I would not bid thee do otherwise.  Yet one bit of counsel will I give thee ere we part.  Think not that thou canst not conform and yet do thy duty by the true faith, too.  Be a careful, watchful inmate of thine uncle’s house; yet fear not to consort with good men, too, when thy chance comes.  Thou needst not tell thine uncle all.  Thou hast reached man’s estate, and it is ordained of God that men should shake off the fetters that bind them in youth, and act and judge for themselves.  My counsel is this:  be wary, be prudent, be watchful, and lose no opportunity of gaining the trust of all men.  So wilt thou one day live to do service to many; and thou wilt better understand my words the longer thou livest in this great city, and learnest more of what is seething below the surface of men’s lives.”

And with a few words of dismissal and blessing the Father sent Cuthbert on his way, standing still and looking after him till the slight figure was lost to sight in the darkness.

“There goes a man who by his face might have a great future before him,” mused the priest.  “It is with such faces as that that men have gone to prison and to death.”

Cuthbert bent his steps towards the bridge, interested and excited by his recent adventure, his thoughts directed into a new channel, his memory recalling the first companion of his lonely journey, and the charm of that companion’s personality and address.  So many other things had passed since, impressions had jostled so quickly one upon the other, that he had scarce thought again of Master Robert Catesby or the purse he had to claim from him.  His new uncle’s liberality had made him rich, and a certain natural reserve had held him silent in his Puritan relative’s house about any person not likely to find favour in Martin Holt’s estimation.  He had been equally reticent about his strange adventure with the gipsies, though he scarce knew why he should not speak of that.  But, as a matter of fact, every day brought with it such a crowd of new impressions that the earlier ones had already partially faded from his mind.