Jack was sick at heart; but even so, he tells me, he was conscious that Frank’s silence was of a peculiar sort.  He felt somehow as if his friend were setting out to some great sacrifice in which he was to suffer, and was only partly conscious of it—­or, at least, so buoyed by some kind of exaltation or fanaticism as not to realize what he was doing. (He reminded me of a certain kind of dream that most people have now and then, of accompanying some friend to death:  the friend goes forward, silent and exultant, and we cannot explain nor hold him back.

“That was the sort of feeling,” said Jack lamely.)

* * * * *

Jack had the grim satisfaction of carrying the bag in which, so to speak, the knife and fillet were hidden.  He changed his mood half a dozen times even in that quarter of an hour’s walk through the town.  Now the thing seemed horrible, like a nightmare; now absurdly preposterous; now rather beautiful; now perfectly ordinary and commonplace.  After all, Jack argued with himself, there are such people as tramps, and they survive.  Why should not Frank?  He had gipsy blood in him, too.  What in the world was he—­Jack—­frightened of?

“Do you remember our talking about your grandmother?” he said suddenly, as they neared the lodge.

“Yes.  Why?”

“Only I’ve just thought of something else.  Wasn’t one of your people executed under Elizabeth?”

“By gad, yes; so he was.  I’d quite forgotten.  It was being on the wrong side for once.”

“How—­the wrong side?”

There was amusement in Frank’s voice as he answered.

“It was for religion,” he said.  “He was a Papist.  All the rest of them conformed promptly.  They were a most accommodating lot.  They changed each time without making any difficulty.  I remember my governor telling us about it once.  He thought them very sensible.  And so they were, by George! from one point of view.”

“Has your religion anything to do with all this?”

“Oh, I suppose so,” said Frank, with an indifferent air.

* * * * *

There were a good many doors open in the High Street as they went up it, and Jack saluted half a dozen people mechanically as they touched their hats to him as he passed in the light from the houses.

“What does it feel like being squire?” asked Frank.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Jack.

“Rather good fun, I should think,” said Frank.

* * * * *

They were nearing the steep part of the ascent presently, and the church clock struck nine.

“Bit late,” said Frank.

“When will you come again?” asked the other suddenly.  “I’m here another fortnight, you know, and then at Christmas again.  Come for Christmas if you can.”

“Ah!  I don’t know where I shall be.  Give my love to Cambridge, though.”