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 God." "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 God 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. "God doth, Mr Avery," he said. "And they are with God." "Art thou less, Robin?" asked Avery tenderly. "God 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.