taircase that rose from the outside to the chapel
door. It was unlatched. He pushed it open and went in.

* * * * *

It was a brave thing that the FitzHerberts did in keeping such a place
at all, since the greatest Protestant fool in the valley knew what the
little chamber was that had the angels carved on the beam-ends, and the
piscina in the south wall. Windows looked out every way; through those
on the south could be seen now the darkening valley and the sunlit
hills, and, yet more necessary, the road by which any travellers from
the valley must surely come. Within, too, scarcely any pains were taken
to disguise the place. It was wainscoted from roof to floor--veiled,
floored and walled in oak. A great chest stood beneath the little east
window of two lights, that cried "Altar" if any chest ever did so. A
great press stood against the wooden screen that shut the room from the
ladies' parlour next door; filled in three shelves with innocent linen,
for this was the only disguise that the place stooped to put on. You
could not swear that mass was said there, but you could swear that it
was a place in which mass would very suitably be said. A couple of
benches were against the press, and three or four chairs stood about the
floor.

Robin saw her against the light as soon as he came in. She was still in
her blue riding-dress, with the hood on her shoulders, and held her whip
in her hand; but he could see no more of her head than the paleness of
her face and the gleam on her black hair.

"Well, then?" she whispered sharply; and then: "Why, what a state you
are in!"

"It's nothing," said Robin. "I rolled in a bog-hole."

She looked at him anxiously.

"You are not hurt?... Sit down at least."

He sat down stiffly, and she beside him, still watching to see if he
were the worse for his falling. He took her hand in his.

"I am not fit to touch you," he said.

"Tell me the news; tell me quickly."

So he told her; of the wrangle in the parlour and what had passed
between his father and him; of his own bitterness; and his letter, and
the way in which the old man had taken it.

"He has not spoken to me since," he said, "except in public before the
servants. Both nights after supper he has sat silent and I beside him."

"And you have not spoken to him?" she asked quickly.

"I said something to him after supper on Sunday, and he made no answer.
He has done all his writing himself. I thi