* * * * *

Life here at Langley was more encouraging than the furtive existence necessary in the north of Derbyshire.

Mr. Bassett had a confident way with him that was like wine to fainting hearts, and he had every reason to be confident; since up to the present, beyond being forced to pay the usual fines for recusancy, he had scarcely been troubled at all; and lived in considerable prosperity, having even been sheriff of Stafford in virtue of his other estates at Blore.  His house at Langley was a great one, standing in a park, and showing no signs of poverty; his servants were largely Catholic; he entertained priests and refugees of all kinds freely, although discreetly; and he laughed at the notion that the persecution could be of long endurance.

The very first night the travellers had come he had spoken with considerable freedom after supper.

“Look more hearty!” he cried.  “The Spanish fleet will be here before summer to relieve us of all troubles, as of all heretics, too.  Her Grace will have to turn her coat once more, I think, when that comes to pass.”

Mr. John glanced at him doubtfully.

“First,” he said, “no man knows whether it will come.  And, next, I for one am not sure if I even wish for it.”

Mr. Bassett laughed loudly.

“You will dance for joy!” he said.  “And why do you not know whether you wish it to come?”

“I have no taste to be a Spanish subject.”

“Why, nor have I!  But the King of Spain will but sail away again when he hath made terms against the privateers, whether they be those that ply on the high seas against men’s bodies, or here in England against their souls.  There will be no subjection of England beyond that.”

Mr. John was silent.

“Why, I heard from Sir Thomas but a week ago, to ask for a little money to pay his fines with.  He said that repayment should follow so soon as the fleet should come.  Those were his very words.”

“You sent the money, then?”

“Why, yes; I made shift that a servant should throw down a bag with ten pounds in it, into a bush, and that Brittlebank—­your brother’s man—­should see him do it!  And lo! when we looked again, the bag was gone!”

He laughed again with open mouth.  Certainly he was an inspiriting man with a loud bark of his own; but Robin imagined that he would not bite too cruelly for all that.  But he saw another side of him presently.

“What was that matter of Mr. Sutton, the priest who was executed in Stafford last year?” asked Mr. John suddenly.

The face of the other changed as abruptly.  His eyes became pin-points under his grey eyebrows and his mouth tightened.

“What of him?” he said.

“It was reported that you might have stayed the execution, and would not.  I did not believe a word of it.”

“It is true,” said Mr. Bassett sharply—­“at least a portion of it.”