voices talking.  Later, when a man had come out from the house, and looked in at his door, telling him that they must start in ten minutes, and giving him a hunch of bread to eat, it had been the way the man’s eyebrows grew over his nose, and the creases of his felt hat, to which he gave his mind.  Somewhere, far beneath in himself, he knew that there were other considerations and memories and movements, that were even fears and hopes and desires; but he could not come at these; he was as a man struggling to dive, held up on the surface by sheets of cork.  He knew that his father was in that house; that it was his father who had been the means of taking him; that Marjorie was there—­yet these facts were as tales read in a book.  So, too, with his faith; his lips repeated words now and then; but God was as far from him and as inconceivably unreal, as is the thought of sunshine and a garden to a miner freezing painlessly in the dark....

In the same state he was led out again presently, and set on a horse.  And while a man attached one foot to the other by a cord beneath the horse’s belly, he looked like a child at the arched doorway of the house; at a patch of lichen that was beginning to spread above the lintel; at the open window of the room above.

He vaguely desired to speak with Marjorie again; he even asked the man who was tying his feet whether he might do so; but he got no answer.  A group of men watched him from the door, and he noticed that they were silent.  He wondered if it were the tying of his feet in which they were so much absorbed.

* * * * *

Little by little, as they rode, this oppression began to lift.  Half a dozen times he determined to speak with the man who rode beside him and held his horse by a leading rein; and each time he did not speak.  Neither did any man speak to him.  Another man rode behind; and a dozen or so went on foot.  He could hear them talking together in low voices.

He was finally roused by his companion’s speaking.  He had noticed the man look at him now and again strangely and not unkindly.

“Is it true that you are a son of Mr. Audrey, sir?”

He was on the point of saying “Yes,” when his mind seemed to come back to him as clear as an awakening from sleep.  He understood that he must not identify himself if he could help it.  He had been told at Rheims that silence was best in such matters.

“Mr. Audrey?” he said.  “The magistrate?”

The man nodded.  He did not seem an unkindly personage at all.  Then he smiled.

“Well, well,” he said.  “Less said—­”

He broke off and began to whistle.  Then he interrupted himself once more.

“He was still in his fit,” he said, “when we came away.  Mistress Manners was with him.”

Intelligence was flowing back in Robin’s brain like a tide.  It seemed to him that he perceived things with an extraordinary clearness and rapidity.  He understood he must show no dismay or horror of any kind; he must carry himself easily and detachedly.