"And you are one--"
"No, sir," said Robin, "I do not deny that I spoke with them all--with
Mr. Charnoc and--"
"That is enough of those names, sir," said the other, with a small and
fearful lift of his white eyebrows, as if he dreaded the very trees that
nearly met overhead in this place. "And what is your business?"
"I have satisfied you, then--" began Robin.
"Not at all, sir. You have answered sufficiently so far; that is all. I
wish to know your business."
"The night following the day on which the men fled, of whom I have just
spoken, I had a letter from--from their leader. He told me that all was
lost, and he gave me a letter to her Grace here--"
He felt the thin old sinews under his hand contract suddenly, and
paused.
"Go on, sir," whispered the old voice.
"A letter to her Grace, sir. I was to use my discretion whether I
carried it with me, or learned it by rote. I have other interests at
stake besides this, and I used my discretion, and destroyed the letter."
"But you have some writing, no doubt--"
"I have none," said Robin. "I have my word only."
There was a pause.
"Was the message private?"
"Private only to her Grace's enemies. I will tell you the substance of
it now, if you will."
The old man, without answering, steered his companion nearer to the
wall; then he relinquished the supporting arm, and leaned himself
against the stones, fixing his eyes full upon the priest, and searching,
as it seemed, every feature of his face and every detail of his dress.
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