Surely this man should say mass for ever;
yet surely never again ride over the moors to do it, amidst enemies. He
was of the strong castle and the chamber, not of the tent and the
battle.... And yet it was of such soldiers as these, as well as of the
sturdy and the strong, that Christ's army was made.
* * * * *
It was in broad daylight, though under a weeping sky, that Robin rode
into the court at Matstead. He shook the rain from his cloak within the
screens, and stamped to get the mud away; and, as he lifted his hat to
shake it, his father came in from the pleasaunce.
Robin glanced up at him, swift and shy, half smiling, expecting a word
or a look. His father must surely have read his little letter by now,
and forgiven him. But the smile died away again, as he met the old man's
eyes; they were as hard as steel; his clean-shaven lips were set like a
trap, and, though he looked at his son, it seemed that he did not see
him. He passed through the screens and went down the steps into the
court.
The boy's heart began to beat so as near to sicken him after his long
fast and his ride. He told himself that his father could not have been
into the parlour yet, though he knew, even while he thought it, that
this was false comfort. He stood there an instant, waiting; hoping that
even now his father would call to him; but the strong figure passed
resolutely on out of sight.
Then the boy went into the hall, and swiftly through it.
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