at the daïs end set cross-ways. It was not a great hall, though that was
its name; it ran perhaps forty feet by twenty. It was lighted, not only
by the fire that burned there through the winter day and night, but by
eight torches in cressets that hung against the walls and sadly smoked
them; and the master's table was lighted by six candles, of latten on
common days and of silver upon festivals.

There were but two at the master's table this evening, Mr. Audrey
himself, a smallish, high-shouldered man, ruddy-faced, with bright blue
eyes like his son's, and no hair upon his face (for this was the way of
old men then, in the country, at least); and Mr. Anthony Babington, a
young man scarcely a year older than Robin himself, of a brown
complexion and a high look in his face, but a little pale, too, with
study, for he was learned beyond his years and read all the books that
he could lay hand to. It was said even that his own verses, and a
prose-lament he had written upon the Death of a Hound, were read with
pleasure in London by the lords and gentlemen. It was as long ago as
'71, that his verses had first become known, when he was still serving
in the school of good manners as page in my Lord Shrewsbury's household.
They were considered remarkable for so young a boy. So it was to this
company that Robin came, walking up between the tables after he had
washed his hands at the lavatory that stood by the screens.

"You are late, lad," said his father.

"I was over to Padley, sir.... Good-day, Anthony."

Then silence fell again, for it was the custom in good houses to keep
silence, or very nearly, at dinner and supper. At times music would
play, if there was music to be had; or a scholar would read from a book