again, then sighed, and gathering up his reins, left the
little eminence and trotted on through sun and shade to a vacant,
ruinous lodge and a twilit avenue, silent and sad beneath the heavy
interlacing of leafy boughs. Closing the vista rose a squat doorway,
ivy-hung; and tumbled upon the grass beside it, attacking now a great
book and now a russet pippin, lay a lad in a blue jerkin.

At the sound of the horse's hoofs the reader marked his page with his
apple, and with a single movement of his lithe body was on his feet,
a-stare to see a visitor where for many days visitors had been none.
Declining autumn and snowy winter and greening spring, he could count
upon the fingers of one hand the number of those who had come that way
where once there had been gay travelling beneath the locked elms.
Another moment and he was at Arden's side, clinging to that gentleman's
jack-boot, raising to his hard-favored but not unkindly countenance a
face aflame with relief and eagerness. Presently came the big tears to
his eyes, he swallowed hard, and ended by burying his head in the folds
of the visitor's riding-cloak.

"Where is your master, Robin-a-dale?" Arden demanded.

The boy, now red and shamefaced because of his wet lashes, stood up, and
squaring himself, looked before him with winking eyes, nor would answer
until he could speak without a quaver. Then: "He sits in the north
chamber, Master Arden. This side o' the house the sun shines." Despite
his boyish will the tears again filled his eyes. "'Tis May-time now, and
there's been none but him above the salt since Lammas-tide. Sir John
came and Sir Philip came, but he would not let them stay. 'Tis lonesome
now at Ferne House, and old Humphrey and I be all that serve him. Of
nights a man is a'most afeard.... I'll fasten your horse, sir, and
mayhap you'll have other luck."

Arden dismounted, and presently the two, boy and adventurer, passed into
a hall where the latter's spur rang upon the stone flooring, and thence
into a long room, cold and shadowy, with the light stealing in through
deep windows past screens of fir and yew. Touched by this wan
effulgence, beside an oaken table on which was not wine nor dice nor
books, a man sat and looked with strained eyes at the irrevocable past.

"Master, master!" cried Robin-a-dale. "Here be company at last. Master!"

Sir Mortimer passed his hand across brow and eyes as though to brush
away thick cobwebs. "Is it you, Giles Arden?" he aske