"That is enough," said the physician decidedly. "I am completely satisfied, Mr. Alban. All that remains is to consider how I can get you to her Grace."
"But if you yourself will deliver—" began Robin.
An extraordinary spasm passed over the other's face, that might denote any fierce emotion, either of anger or grief.
"Do you think it is that?" he hissed. "Why, man, where is your priesthood? Do you think the poor dame within would not give her soul for a priest?… Why, I have prayed God night and day to send us a priest. She is half mad with sorrow; and who knows whether ever again in this world—"
He broke off, his face all distorted with pain; and Robin felt a strange thrill of glory at the thought that he bore with him, in virtue of his priesthood only, so much consolation. He faced for the first time that tremendous call of which he had heard so much in Rheims—that desolate cry of souls that longed and longed in vain for those gifts which a priest of Christ could alone bestow….
"… The question is," the old man was saying more quietly, "how to get you in to her Grace. Why, Sir Amyas opens her letters even, and reseals them again! He thinks me a fool, and that I do not know what he does…. Do you know aught of medicine?" he asked abruptly.
"I know only what country folks know of herbs."
"And their names—their Latin names, man?" pursued the other, leaning forward.
Robin half smiled.
"Now you speak of it," he said, "I have learned a good many, as a pastime, when I was a boy. I was something of a herbalist, even. But I have forgotten—"