“It would choke me, Mrs Avery,” he answered. “But you are exceeding good unto me.”
“Poor child!” said Avery, pityingly. “Thou wilt be safe here at the least. I have not enclosed, I thank God.”
“I thought you would take me in for a few days,” said the lad, “until I may see my way afore me, and win some little heart to pursue it.”
“Thy way shall be my way, Robin,” replied Avery tenderly. “Twenty years and more gone, when I was a stripling about thy years, thy father helped me unto my calling with a gift of twenty pounds, which he never would give me leave to pay him. Under thy leave, I will pay it thee.”
“You are exceeding good,” he said again, not lifting his head.
“And how didst thou get away, poor Robin?” asked Isoult.
“I dropped from the window,” said he. “My chamber window was low built; and when I heard the horrid shouts and yells at the front of the house, I jumped out at the back, and hid me in the bushes beyond. And there, not daring to creep away till they were gone, lest they should discover me, I heard and saw all.”
“Then the bushes took not fire?” suggested Avery.
“Nay,” said he, “the fish-pond lieth atween them and the house, mind you.”
He was silent a little while. Then he said softly, under his breath—“Mr Avery, when I saw the fiends lay hold upon Mother and Arbel, I thought God must surely strike from Heaven for us. But when, ten minutes later, I saw the flames shooting up to the welkin, I thanked Him in mine heart that He had taken them to His rest ere that.”