the
old days and the old faith, which indeed had ceased to be the faith of
all scarcely twenty years ago; and it appeared to the most of them that
the proper faith of the Quality, since they had before their eyes such
families as the Babingtons, the Fentons, and the FitzHerberts, was that
to which their own squire was about to say good-bye. It was known, too,
publicly by now, that Mr. Robin was gone away for Easter, since he would
not follow his father. So the crowd waited; the dogs sunned themselves;
and the gunner sat on a wall.

* * * * *

The bells ceased at nine o'clock, and upon the moment, a group came
round the churchyard wall, down from the field-path and the stile that
led to the manor.

First, walking alone, came the squire, swiftly and steadily. His face
was flushed a little, but set and determined. He was in his fine
clothes, ruff and all; his rapier was looped at his side, and he carried
a stick. Behind him came three or four farm servants; then a yeoman and
his wife; and last, at a little distance, three or four onlookers.

There was dead silence as he came; the hum of talk died at the corners;
the bells' clamour had even now ceased. It seemed as if each man waited
for his neighbour to speak. There was only the sound of the squire's
brisk footsteps on the few yards of cobbles that paved the walk up to
the lych-gate. At the door of the church, seen beyond him, was a crowd
of faces.

Then a man called something aloud from fifty yards away; but there was
no voice to echo him. The folk just watched their lord go by, staring on
him as on some strange sight, forgetting even to salute him. And so in
silence he passed on.

II

Within, the church murmured with low talking. Already two-thirds of it
was full, and all faces turned and re-turned to the door at every
footstep or sound. As the bells ceased a sigh went up, as if a giant
drew breath; then, once again, the murmuring began.

The church was as most were in those days. It was but a little place,
yet it had had in old days great treasures of beauty. There had been,
until some ten or twelve years ago, a carved screen that ran across the
chancel arch, with the Rood upon it, and St. Mary and St. John on this
side and that. The high-altar, it was remembered, had been of stone
throughout, surrounded with curtains on the three sides, hanging between
posts that had each a carven angel, all gilt. Now all was gone,
excepting