She got up from her seat and went out quickly on tiptoe as she heard a door open and close beneath her in the house, running over in her mind any preparations that she would have to make if the rider were one that needed shelter.

As she looked down the staircase, she saw a maid there, who had run out from the buttery, talking to a man whom she thought she knew.  Then he lifted his face, and she saw that she was right:  and that it was Mr. Babington.

She came down, reassured and smiling; but her breath caught in her throat as she saw his face....  She told the maid to be off and get supper ready, but he jerked his head in refusal.  She saw that he could hardly speak.  Then she led him into the hall, taking down the lantern that hung in the passage, and placing it on the table.  But her hand shook in spite of herself.

“Tell me,” she whispered.

He sat down heavily on a bench.

“It is all over,” he said.  “The bloody murderers!...  They were gibbeted three days ago.”

The girl drew a long, steady breath.  All her heart cried “Robin.”

“Who are they, Mr. Babington?”

“Why, Campion and Sherwine and Brian.  They were taken a month or two ago....  I had heard not a word of it, and ... and it ended three days ago.”

“I ...  I do not understand.”

The man struck his hand heavily on the long table against which he leaned.  He appeared one flame of fury; courtesy and gentleness were all gone from him.

“They were hanged for treason, I tell you....  Treason! ...  Campion!...  By God! we will give them treason if they will have it so!”

All seemed gone from Marjorie except the white, splashed face that stared at her, lighted up by the lantern beside him, glaring from the background of darkness.  It was not Robin ... not Robin ... yet—­

The shocking agony of her face broke through the man’s heart-broken fury, and he stood up quickly.

“Mistress Marjorie,” he said, “forgive me....  I am like a madman.  I am on my way from Derby, where the news came to me this afternoon.  I turned aside to tell you.  They say the truce, as they call it, is at an end.  I came to warn you.  You must be careful.  I am riding for London.  My men are in the valley.  Mistress Marjorie—­”

She waved him aside.  The blood was beginning again to beat swiftly and deafeningly in her ears, and the word came back.

“I ...  I was shocked,” she said; “... you must pardon me....  Is it certain?”

He tore out a bundle of papers from behind his cloak, detached one with shaking hands and thrust it before her.

She sat down and spread it on the table.  But his voice broke in and interrupted her all the while.

“They were all three taken together, in the summer....  I ... have been in France; my letters never reached me....  They were racked continually....  They died all together; praying for the Queen ... at Tyburn....  Campion died the first....”