n
eternal good-bye; the writer said that he would lay down his life gladly
again in such a cause if it were called for, and would lay down a
thousand if he had them; he entreated her to look to herself, for that
no doubt every attempt would now be made to entrap her; and it warned
her to put no longer any confidence in a "detestable knave, G.G."
Finally, he begged that "Jesu would have her in His holy keeping," and
that if matters fell out as he thought they would, she would pray for
his soul, and the souls of all that had been with him in the enterprise.

He read it through three or four times; every line and letter burned
itself into his brain. Then he tore it across and across; then he tore
the letter addressed to himself in the same manner; then he went through
all the fragments, piece by piece, tearing each into smaller fragments,
till there remained in his hands just a bunch of tiny scraps, smaller
than snowflakes, and these he scattered out of the window.

Then he went to his door, unbolted it, and walked downstairs to find the
landlord.

III

It was not until ten days later, soon after dawn, that Robin set out on
his melancholy errand. He rode out northward as soon as the gates were
opened, with young "Mr. Arnold," a priest ordained with him in Rheims,
and one of his party, disguised as a servant, following him on a
pack-horse with the luggage. It was a misty morning, white and
cheerless, with the early fog that had drifted up from the river. Last
night the news had come in that Anthony and at least one other had been
taken near Harrow, in disguise, and the streets had been full of riotous
rejoicing over the capture.

He had thought it more prudent to wait till after receiving the news,
which he so much dreaded, lest haste should bring suspicion on himself,
and the message that he carried; since for him, too, to disappear at
once would have meant an almost inevitable association of him with the
party of plotters; but it had been a hard time to pass through. Early in
the morning, after Anthony's flight, he had awakened to hear a rapping
upon the inn door, and, peeping from his window, had seen a couple of
plainly dressed men waiting for admittance; but after that he had seen
no more of them. He had deliberately refrained from speaking with the
landlord, except to remark again upon the luggage of which he caught a
sight, piled no longer in the entrance, but in the little room that the
man himself used. The