"Eh?"

"Tell your man to wait with the horses."

His heart beat hot and thick in his throat as he led the way through the
screens and out beyond the hall and down the steps again into the
pleasaunce. Anthony took him by the sleeve once or twice, but he said
nothing, and went on across the grass, and out through the open iron
gate that gave upon the woods. He dared not say what he had to say
within the precincts of the house, for fear he should be overheard and
the shame known before its time. Then, when they had gone a little way
into the wood, into the dark out of the starlight, Robin turned; and, as
he turned, saw the windows of the hall go black as the boys extinguished
the torches.

"Well?" whispered Anthony sharply (for a fool could see that the news
was to be weighty, and Anthony was no fool).

It was wonderful how Robin's thoughts had fixed themselves since his
talk with Mistress Marjorie. He had gone to Padley, doubting of what he
should say, doubting what she would tell him, asking himself even
whether compliance might not be the just as well as the prudent way. Yet
now black shame had come on him--the black shame that any who was a
Catholic should turn from his faith; blacker, that he should so turn
without even a touch of the rack or the threat of it; blackest of all,
that it should be his own father who should do this. It was partly food
and wine that had strengthened him, partly Anthony's talk just now; but
the frame and substance of it all was Marjorie and her manner of
speaking, and her faith in him and in God.