“Sit you there,” he said, with the glorious nonchalance of a Babington, “and let no man by till I tell you.”

He came back, closed the door, bolted it, and then came across and sat down by his friend.

“Do you think the rest of us are doing nothing?” he whispered.  “Why, I tell you that a dozen of us in Derbyshire—­” He broke off once more.  “I may not tell you,” he said, “I must ask leave first.”

A light began to glimmer before Robin’s mind; the light broadened suddenly and intensely, and his whole soul leapt to meet it.

“Do you mean—?” And then he, too, broke off, well knowing enough, though not all of, what was meant.

* * * * *

It was quiet here within this room, in spite of the village street outside.  It was dinner-time, and all were within doors or out at their affairs; and except for the stamp of a horse now and again, and the scream of the wind in the keyhole and between the windows, there was little to hear.  And in the lad’s soul was a tempest.

He knew well enough now what his friend meant, though nothing of the details; and from the secrecy and excitement of the young man’s manner he understood what the character of his dealings would likely be, and towards those dealings his whole nature leaped as a fish to the water.  Was it possible that this way lay the escape from his own torment of conscience?  Yet he must put a question first, in honesty.

“Tell me this much,” he said in a low voice.  “Do you mean that this ... this affair will be against men’s lives ... or ... or such as even a priest might engage in?”

Then the light of fanaticism leaped to the eyes of his friend, and his face brightened wonderfully.

“Do they observe the courtesies and forms of law?” he snarled.  “Did Nelson die by God’s law, or did Sherwood—­those we know of?  I will tell you this,” he said, “and no more unless you pledge yourself to us ... that we count it as warfare—­in Christ’s Name yes—­but warfare for all that.”

* * * * *

There then lay the choice before this lad, and surely it was as hard a choice as ever a man had to make.  On the one side lay such an excitement as he had never yet known—­for Anthony was no merely mad fool—­a path, too, that gave him hopes of Marjorie, that gave him an escape from home without any more ado, a task besides which he could tell himself honestly was, at least, for the cause that lay so near to Marjorie’s heart, and was beginning to lie near his own.  And on the other there was open to him that against which he had fought now day after day, in misery—­a life that had no single attraction to the natural man in him, a life that meant the loss of Marjorie for ever.

The colour died from his lips as he considered this.  Surely all lay Anthony’s way:  Anthony was a gentleman like himself; he would do nothing that was not worthy of one....  What he had said of warfare was surely sound logic.  Were they not already at war?  Had not the Queen declared it?  And on the other side—­nothing.  Nothing.  Except that a voice within him on that other side cried louder and louder—­it seemed in despair:  “This is the way; walk in it.”