priest, and open the door to the worshippers who streamed in, like bees
to a flower-garden, from farm and manor and village. He could not for
ever ride alone from Matstead and meet his father's silence.

One thing more, too, had moved him this morning; and that, the sight of
the young priest at the altar whom he had met on the moor. Here, more
than ever, was the gentle priestliness and innocency apparent. He stood
there in his red vestments; he moved this way and that; he made his
gestures; he spoke in undertones, lit only by the pair of wax-candles,
more Levitical than ever in such a guise, yet more unsuited than ever to
such exterior circumstances. Surely this man should say mass for ever;
yet surely never again ride over the moors to do it, amidst enemies. He
was of the strong castle and the chamber, not of the tent and the
battle.... And yet it was of such soldiers as these, as well as of the
sturdy and the strong, that Christ's army was made.

* * * * *

It was in broad daylight, though under a weeping sky, that Robin rode
into the court at Matstead. He shook the rain from his cloak within the
screens, and stamped to get the mud away; and, as he lifted his hat to
shake it, his father came in from the pleasaunce.

Robin glanced up at him, swift and shy, half smiling, expecting a word
or a look. His father must surely have read his little letter by now,
and forgiven him. But the smile died away again, as he met the old man's
eyes; they were as hard as steel; his clean-shaven lips were set like a
trap, and, though he looked at his son, it seemed that he did not see
him. He passed through the screens and went down the steps into the
court.