Robin thought that he had seldom had so pleasant a supper as on that night.  The windows of the low hall where he had dined so often as a boy, were flung wide to catch the scented evening air.  The sun was round to the west and threw long, golden rays, that were all lovely light and no heat, slantways on the paved floor and the polished tables and the bright pewter.  Down at the lower end sat the servants, brown men, burned by the sun; lean as panthers, scarcely speaking, ravenous after their long day in the hayfields; and up here three companions with whom he was wholly at his ease.  The evening was as still as night, except for the faint peaceful country sounds that came up from the valley below—­the song of a lad riding home; the barking of a dog; the bleat of sheep—­all minute and delicate, as unperceived, yet as effective, as a rich fabric on which a design is woven.  It seemed to him as he listened to the talk—­the brisk, shrewd remarks of Mr. Garlick; the courteous and rather melancholy answers of his host; as he watched the second priest’s eyes looking gently and pleasantly about him; as he ate the plain, good food and drank the country drink, that, in spite of all, his lot was cast in very sweet places.  There was not a hint here of disturbance, or of men’s passions, or of ugly strife:  there was no clatter, as in the streets of Derby, or pressure of humanity, or wearying politics of the market-place.  He found himself in one of those moods that visit all men sometimes, when the world appears, after all, a homely and a genial place; when the simplest things are the best; when no excitement or ambition or furious zeal can compare with the gentle happiness of a tired body that is in the act of refreshment, or of a driven mind that is finding its relaxation.  At least, he said to himself, he would enjoy this night and the next day and the night after, with all his heart.

* * * * *

The four found themselves so much at ease here, that the dessert was brought in to them where they sat; and it was then that the first unhappy word was spoken.

“Mr. Simpson!” said Garlick suddenly.  “Is there any more news of him?”

Mr. John shook his head.

“He hath not yet been to church, thank God!” he said.  “So much I know for certain.  But he hath promised to go.”

“Why is he not yet gone?  He promised a great while ago.”

“I hear he hath been sick.  Derby gaol is a pestiferous place.  They are waiting, I suppose, till he is well enough to go publicly, that all the world may be advertised of it!”

Mr. Garlick gave a bursting sigh.

“I cannot understand it at all,” he said.  “There has never been so zealous a priest.  I have ridden with him again and again before I was a priest.  He was always quiet; but I took him to be one of those stout-hearted souls that need never brag.  Why, it was here that we heard him tell of Mr. Nelson’s death!”