“Oh! why have they done it?” sobbed Isabel. “What harm have we done them?” and she began to wail. She was thoroughly over-tired and over-wrought; and Anthony could not find it in his heart to blame her; but he spoke again bravely.
“We are Catholics,” he said; “that is why they have done it. Do not throw away this grace that our Lord has given us; embrace it and make it yours.”
It was the priest that was speaking now; and Isabel turned her face and looked at him; and then got up and hid her face on his shoulder.
“Oh, Anthony, help me!” she said; and so stood there, quiet.
He came down presently to the servants, while Isabel went upstairs to prepare the rooms in the attics; for it was impossible for them to ride further that night; so they settled to sleep there, and stable the horses; and to ride on early the next day, and be out of the village before the folks were about. Anthony gave directions to the servants, who were Catholics too, and explained in a word or two what had happened; and bade them come up to the house as soon as they had fed and watered the beasts; meanwhile he took the saddle-bags indoors and spread out their remaining provisions in one of the downstairs rooms; and soon Isabel joined him.
“I have made up five beds,” she said, and her voice and lips were steady, and her eyes grave and serene again.
The five supped together in the wrecked kitchen, a fine room on the east of the house, supported by a great oak pillar to which the horses of guests were sometimes attached when the stable was full.
Isabel managed to make a fire and to boil some soup; but they hung thick curtains across the shattered windows, and quenched the fire as soon as the soup was made, for fear that either the light or the smoke from the chimney should arouse attention.
When supper was over, and the two men-servants and Isabel’s French maid were washing up in the scullery, Isabel suddenly turned to Anthony as they sat together near the fireplace.