“And now, Robin,” said John, “we want thine history, writ fair in a great book.”
“Then, Father,” he answered, and smiled, “you must tarry the writing. But I count I take you. Mine history is not very long, for there was but little change in it.”
“But, Robin,” said Isoult, “where hast thou been, dear lad? Austin Bernher hath searched all the prisons for thee, yea, over and over, for months past, and asked at many prisoners; yet could never bring us tidings.”
“I trow, Mother,” answered Robin, again smiling, “he searched every whither but the right. And few prisoners should have known anything of me, seeing I was kept alone.”
“Did they count thee a prisoner of import?” said John, in an astonished tone.
“From what I heard them say,” answered Robin, looking at Mr Rose, “I may thank you for that. Taking me with you, and standing close by you, they counted me a very pestilent heretic, and treated me as such.”
“Ah! see what it is to fall into bad company!” said Mr Rose, smiling.
“Well, Robin,” said Isoult, “thou shalt tell us all after supper, an’ thou wilt. But now all is ready, an’t please you.”
So they gathered round the supper-table, and Mr Rose had only just said grace, when the latch was lifted, and Mr Underhill’s cheery voice cried—
“May an heretic come in?”