hen he heard that
Mr. Audrey, who had been so hot and persevered so long, must be added to
these?

And then, on a sudden, Anthony himself opened on a matter that was at
least cognate.

"I was hearing to-day from Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert that his uncle would
be let out again of the Fleet soon to collect his fines."

He spoke bitterly; and, indeed, there was reason; for not only were the
recusants (as the Catholics were named) put in prison for their faith,
but fined for it as well, and let out of prison to raise money for this,
by selling their farms or estates.

"He will go to Norbury?" asked Robin.

"He will come to Padley, too, it is thought. Her Grace must have her
money for her ships and her men, and for her pursuivants to catch us all
with; and it is we that must pay. Shall you sell again this year, sir?"

Mr. Audrey shook his head, pursing up his lips and staring upon the
fire.

"I can sell no more," he said.

Then an agony seized upon Robin lest his father should say all that was
in his mind. He knew it must be said; yet he feared its saying, and with
a quick wit he spoke of that which he knew would divert his friend.

"And the Queen of the Scots," he said. "Have you heard more of her?"

Now Anthony Babington was one of those spirits that live largely within
themselves, and therefore see that which is without through a haze or
mist of their own moods. He read much in the poets; you would say that
Vergil and Ovid, as well as the poets of his own day, were his friends;
he lived within, surrounded by his own images, and therefore he loved
and hated with ten times the ardour of a common man. He was furious for
the Old Faith, furious against the new; he dreamed of wars and gallantry
and splendour; you could see it even in his dress, in his furred
doublet, the embroideries at his throat, his silver-hilted rapier, as
well as in his port and countenance: and the burning heart of all his
images, the mirror on earth of Mary in heaven, the emblem of his piety,
the mistress of his dreams--she who embodied for him what the courtiers
in London protested that Elizabeth embodied for them--the pearl of great
price, the one among ten thousand--this, for him, was Mary Stuart, Queen
of Scotland, now prisoner in her cousin's hands, going to and fro from
house to house, with a guard about her, yet with all the seeming of
liberty and none of its reality....

The rough bitterness died out of the boy's face, and a look came up