He uttered the name in a tone of indignant and despairing protest.  They were in the oak parlour together, and she went slowly to the window and let her pet dove fly.

“Ah, yes!  Innocent!” she repeated, sadly—­“But you must let me go, Robin!—­just as I have let my dove fly, so you must let me fly also—­far, far away!”

CHAPTER IX

No more impressive scene was ever witnessed in a country village than the funeral of “the last of the Jocelyns,”—­impressive in its solemnity, simplicity and lack of needless ceremonial.  The coffin, containing all that was mortal of the sturdy, straightforward farmer, whose “old-world” ways of work and upright dealing with his men had for so long been the wonder and envy of the district, was placed in a low waggon and covered with a curiously wrought, handwoven purple cloth embroidered with the arms of the French knight “Amadis de Jocelin,” tradition asserting that this cloth had served as a pall for every male Jocelyn since his time.  The waggon was drawn by four glossy dark brown cart-horses, each animal having known its master as a friend whose call it was accustomed to obey, following him wherever he went.  On the coffin itself was laid a simple wreath of the “Glory” roses gathered from the porch and walls of Briar Farm, and offered, as pencilled faintly on a little scroll—­“With a life’s love and sorrow from Innocent.”  A long train of mourners, including labourers, farm-lads, shepherds, cowherds, stable-men and villagers generally, followed the corpse to the grave,—­Robin Clifford, as chief mourner and next-of-kin to the dead man, walking behind the waggon with head down-bent and a face on which intense grief had stamped such an impress as to make it look far older than his years warranted.  Groups of women stood about, watching the procession with hard eager eyes, and tongues held in check for a while, only to wag more vigorously than ever when the ceremony should be over.  Innocent, dressed in deep black for the first time in her life, went by herself to the churchyard, avoiding the crowd—­and, hidden away among concealing shadows, she heard the service and watched all the proceedings dry-eyed and heart-stricken.  She could not weep any more—­there seemed no tears left to relieve the weight of her burning brain.  Robin had tenderly urged her to walk with him in the funeral procession, but she refused.

“How can I!—­how dare I!” she said—­“I am not his daughter—­I am nothing!  The cruel people here know it!—­and they would only say my presence was an insult to the dead.  Yes!—­they would—­now!  He loved me!—­and I loved him!—­but nobody outside ourselves thinks about that, or cares.  You would hardly believe it, but I have already been told how wicked it was of me to be dressed in white when the clergyman called to see me the morning after Dad’s death —­well, I had no other colour to wear till Priscilla got me this sad black gown—­it made me shudder to put it on—­it is like the darkness itself!—­you know Dad always made me wear white—­and I feel as if I were vexing him somehow by wearing black.  Oh, Robin, be kind!—­you always are!—­let me go by myself and watch Dad put to rest where nobody can see me.  For after they have laid him down and left him, they will be talking!”