"
"You met no one else?"
"Yes, sir; Mr. Thomas FitzHerbert was there and dined with us. He rode
with us, too, a little way." And then as he was on the point of speaking
of the priest, he stopped himself; and in an instant knew that never
again must he speak of a priest to his father; his father had already
lost his right to that. His father looked at him a moment, standing with
his hands clasped behind his back.
"Have you heard anything of a priest that is newly come to these
parts--or coming?"
"Yes, sir. I hear mass is to be said ... in the district on Sunday."
"Where is mass to be said?"
Robin drew along breath, lifted his eyes to his father's and then
dropped them again.
"Did you hear me, sir? Where is mass to be said?"
Again Robin lifted and again dropped his eyes.
"What is the priest's name?"
Again there was dead silence. For a son, in those days, so to behave
towards his father, was an act of very defiance. Yet the father said
nothing. There the two remained; Robin with his eyes on the ground,
expecting a storm of words or a blow in the face. Yet he knew he could
do no otherwise; the moment had come at last and he must act as he would
be obliged always to act hereafter.
Matters had matured swiftly in the boy's mind, all unconsciously to
himself. Perhaps it was the timid air of the priest he had met an hour
ago that consummated the process. At least it was so consummated.
Then his father turned suddenly on his heel; and the son went out
trembling.
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