ivals. They came and went like this,
often without warning; it was her business to look at any credentials
they bore with them, and then, if all were well, to do what she
could-whether to set them on their way, or to give them shelter. A room
was set aside now, in the further wing, and called openly and freely the
"priest's room,"--so great was their security.

She got up from her seat and went out quickly on tiptoe as she heard a
door open and close beneath her in the house, running over in her mind
any preparations that she would have to make if the rider were one that
needed shelter.

As she looked down the staircase, she saw a maid there, who had run out
from the buttery, talking to a man whom she thought she knew. Then he
lifted his face, and she saw that she was right: and that it was Mr.
Babington.

She came down, reassured and smiling; but her breath caught in her
throat as she saw his face.... She told the maid to be off and get
supper ready, but he jerked his head in refusal. She saw that he could
hardly speak. Then she led him into the hall, taking down the lantern
that hung in the passage, and placing it on the table. But her hand
shook in spite of herself.

"Tell me," she whispered.

He sat down heavily on a bench.

"It is all over," he said. "The bloody murderers!... They were gibbeted
three days ago."

The girl drew a long, steady breath. All her heart cried "Robin."

"Who are they, Mr. Babington?"

"Why, Campion and Sherwine and Brian. They were taken a month or two
ago.... I had heard not a word of it, and ... and it ended three days
ago."

"I ... I do not understand."

The man struck his hand heavily on the long table against which he
leaned. He appeared one flame of fury; courtesy and gentleness were all
gone from him.

"They were hanged for treason, I tell you.... Treason! ... Campion!...
By God! we will give them treason if they will have it so!"

All seemed gone from Marjorie except the white, splashed face that
stared at her, lighted up by the lantern beside him, glaring from the
background of darkness. It was not Robin ... not Robin ... yet--

The shocking agony of her face broke through the man's heart-broken
fury, and he stood up quickly.

"Mistress Marjorie," he said, "forgive me.... I am like a madman. I am
on my way from Derby, where the news came to me this afternoon. I turned
aside to tell you. They say the truce, as they call it, is at an end. I
came to warn you. You