be able to come again. I
would tell Sir Amyas how much good you had done to her last time, with
your herbs; and, it might be, you could see her again in a month or two
perhaps--or later."

Robin was silent.

The greatness of the affair terrified him; yet its melancholy drew him.
He had seen her on whom all England bent its thoughts at this time, who
was a crowned Queen, with broad lands and wealth, who called Elizabeth
"sister"; yet who was more of a prisoner than any in the Fleet or
Westminster Gatehouse, since those at least could have their friends to
come to them. Her hidden fires, too, had warmed him--that passion for
God that had burst from her when her gaoler left her, and she had flung
herself on her knees before her hidden Saviour. It may be he had doubted
her before (he did not know); but there was no more doubt in him after
her protestation of her innocence. He began to see now that she stood
for more than her kingdom or her son or the plots attributed to her,
that she was more than a mere great woman, for whose sake men could both
live and die; he began to see in her that which poor Anthony had seen--a
champion for the Faith of them all, an incarnate suffering symbol, in
flesh and blood, of that Religion for which he, too, was in peril--that
Religion, which, in spite of all clamour to the contrary, was the real
storm-centre of England's life.

He turned then to the old man with a suddenly flushed face.

"A message will always reach me at Mistress Manners' house, at Booth's
Edge, near Hathersage, in Derbyshire. And I will come from there, or
from the world's end, to serve her Grace."

CHAPTER V

I

"First give me your blessing, Mr. Alban," said Marjorie, kneeling down
before him in the hall in front of them all. She was as pale as a ghost,
but her eyes shone like stars.

* * * * *

It was a couple of months after his leaving Chartley before he came at
last to Booth's Edge. First he had had to bestow Mr. Arnold in
Lancashire, for suspicion was abroad; and it was a letter from Marjorie
herself, reaching him in Derby, at Mr. Biddell's house, that had told
him of it, and bidden him go on with his friend. The town had never been
the same since Topcliffe's visit; and now that Babington House was no
longer in safe Catholic hands, a great protection was gone. He had
better go on, she said, as if he were what he professed to be--a
gentleman travelling with his servan