Robin checked his horse before a man whose face seemed kindly, and who
saluted courteously the fine gentleman who looked about with such an
air.
"My horse is dead-spent," he said curtly. "Is there an inn here where my
man and I can find lodging?"
The man shook his head, looking at the horse compassionately. He had the
air of a groom about him.
"I fear not, sir, not within five miles; at least, not with a room to
spare."
"This is Chartley, is it not?" asked the priest, noticing that the next
man, too, was listening.
"Aye, sir."
"Can you tell me if my friend Mr. Bourgoign lodges in the house, or
without the gates?"
"Mr. Bourgoign, sir? A friend of yours?"
"I hope so," said Robin, smiling, and keeping at least within the letter
of truth.
The man mused a moment.
"It is possible he might help you, sir. He lodges in the house; but he
comes sometimes to see a woman that is sick here."
Robin demanded where she lived.
"At the last house, sir--a little beyond the rest. She is one of her
Grace's kitchen-women. They moved her out here, thinking it might be the
fever she had."
This was plainly a communicative fellow; but the priest thought it wiser
not to take too much interest. He tossed the man a coin and rode on.
* * * * *
The last house was a little better built than the others, and stood
further back from the road. Robin dismounted here, and, with a nod to
Mr.
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