"There is somewhat gone wrong," said John, and hurrying down, he unbarred the door, and let in Robin. Isoult followed as quickly as she could.

"Why, Robin, lad, what is the matter?" she cried in dismay. "What can ail thee? Is somewhat amiss at Tremayne?"

For Robin's face was white with terror, and he trembled from head to foot, and his clothes were soiled and torn.

"All that can ail me in this world," murmured the poor lad, dropping upon the settle. "There is no Tremayne. The enclosure men came thither yestereven, and burned every brick of it to the ground."

"The rascals!" exclaimed Avery. "And what came of thy father, and mother, and sister, poor Robin?"

The lad looked up with tearless eyes. "I am all of us."

Isoult was silent. This was a sorrow beyond human comforting. It had been mockery to bid him be of good cheer then.

"My father had enclosed, as you know," resumed Robin in a low voice.

"And these rioters would no enclosures."

"Would to G.o.d he had let it alone!" murmured Avery under his breath.

"G.o.d would not, Mr Avery," quietly answered Robin, "or he had let it alone."

And dropping his head upon his hands, the poor boy rocked himself to and fro silently. He seemed very faint and weary, yet Isoult doubted if he could eat; but she fetched a jug of milk, and set it before him, bidding him drink if he could.

"It would choke me, Mrs Avery," he answered. "But you are exceeding good unto me."

"Poor child!" said Avery, pityingly. "Thou wilt be safe here at the least. I have not enclosed, I thank G.o.d."

"I thought you would take me in for a few days," said the lad, "until I may see my way afore me, and win some little heart to pursue it."

"Thy way shall be my way, Robin," replied Avery tenderly. "Twenty years and more gone, when I was a stripling about thy years, thy father helped me unto my calling with a gift of twenty pounds, which he never would give me leave to pay him. Under thy leave, I will pay it thee."

"You are exceeding good," he said again, not lifting his head.

"And how didst thou get away, poor Robin?" asked Isoult.

"I dropped from the window," said he. "My chamber window was low built; and when I heard the horrid shouts and yells at the front of the house, I jumped out at the back, and hid me in the bushes beyond. And there, not daring to creep away till they were gone, lest they should discover me, I heard and saw all."

"Then the bushes took not fire?" suggested Avery.

"Nay," said he, "the fish-pond lieth atween them and the house, mind you."

He was silent a little while. Then he said softly, under his breath--"Mr Avery, when I saw the fiends lay hold upon Mother and Arbel, I thought G.o.d must surely strike from Heaven for us. But when, ten minutes later, I saw the flames shooting up to the welkin, I thanked Him in mine heart that He had taken them to His rest ere that."

"But, Robin, lad! didst thou not strike for them?" cried Avery, who could not bear anything that seemed like cowardice.

"Should I, think you?" he made answer, in that low, hopeless tone that goes to the heart. "There were seventy or more of the enclosure men. I could but have died with them. Maybe I ought to have done that. I think it had cost less."

"Forgive me, Robin!" said John, laying his hand on the lad's shoulder.

"Poor heart! I meant not to reproach thee. I spake hastily, therefore unadvisedly."

"Let me have thee abed, poor Robin," said Isoult. "'Tis but one of the clock. Canst thou sleep, thinkest?"

"Sometime, I count I shall again," he answered; "but an' I were to judge by my feeling, I should think I never could any more."

"Time healeth," whispered Avery, rather to his wife than Robin; but the lad heard him.

"G.o.d doth, Mr Avery," he said. "And they are with G.o.d."

"Art thou less, Robin?" asked Avery tenderly.

"G.o.d is with me; that is the difference," he replied.

Robin Tremayne had always been a quiet, thoughtful boy; and even when the first gush of his agony was over, there remained upon him a gentle, grave pensiveness which it appeared as if he would never lose.

The next day proved as uneventful as other days at Bradmond. No rioters came near them.

In the evening Dr Thorpe appeared. When the old man saw Robin, he cast up his hands, and thanked G.o.d.

"Lad," said he, "I thought thou wert dead."

"I count G.o.d hath somewhat for me to do," answered Robin. "But if He hath not, I would I were."

"Hush thee, Robin dear!" said Isoult, uneasily.

"What wouldst thou be, Robin?" inquired Kate, her eyes wide open.

"Dead and buried," answered he.

"Then may I be dead and buried too?" she asked.

"Nay, Kate, not so!" cried Isoult, in dismay.

"It will not do, Robin," said Dr Thorpe, smiling. And his face growing grave, he pursued, "Lad, G.o.d setteth never too hard a lesson, nor layeth on us more than we are able to bear."

"Too hard for what?" answered Robin. "There have been that have had lessons set that they might not learn and live. Is that not too hard?"

"Nay, child!" Dr Thorpe answered. "If it be not too hard to learn, and keep hold on eternal life, the lesser life of this little world is of no matter."

"Nor the happiness of it, I suppose?" said Robin, gloomily.

"The plant G.o.d careth to grow now in us is holiness," he answered.

"That other fair flower, happiness, He keepeth for us in His own garden above, where it is safer than in our keeping. 'Tis but stray fragments and single leaves thereof that find their way down hither."

"I think so," said Robin, bitterly.

"Lad, lad! kick not against the p.r.i.c.ks!" exclaimed Dr Thorpe, more sternly. "G.o.d's will is the best for us. His way is the safe way, and the only way."

"Easy to say so," answered Robin, slowly. "And it was easy to think so--yesterday morning."

Dr Thorpe looked on him and did not reply.