ife; but here, within the walls of
London, in this "wolves' den" as Father Campion had called it, where men
brushed against one another continually, and looked into a thousand
faces a day, where patrols went noisily with lights and weapons, where
the great Tower stood, where her Grace, the mistress of the wolves, had
her dwelling--here, peril assumed another aspect, and pain and death
another reality, from that which they presented on the wind-swept hills
and the secret valleys of the country from which they came.... And it
was with Father Campion himself, in his very flesh, that she had talked
this evening--it was Father Campion who had given her that swift, kindly
look of commendation, as Mr. Babington had spoken of her reason for
coming to London, and of her hospitality to wandering priests--Father
Campion, the Angel of the Church, was in England. And to-morrow Robin,
too, would be here.

* * * * *

Then, as sleep began to come down on her tired and excited brain, and to
form, as so often under such conditions, little visible images, even
before the reason itself is lulled, there began to pass before her,
first tiny and delicate pictures of what she had seen to-day--the low
hills to the north of London, dull and dark below the heavy sky, but
light immediately above the horizon as the sun sank down; the appearance
of her horse's ears--those ears and that tuft of wayward mane between
them of which she had grown so weary; the lighted walls of the London
streets; the monstrous shadows of the eaves; the flare of lights; the
moving figures--these came first; and then faces--Father Campion's,
smiling, with white teeth and narrowed eyes, bright against the dark
chimney-breast; Alice's serene features, framed in flaxen hair; and
then, as sleep had all but conquered her, the imagination sent up one
last idea, and a face came into being before her, so formless yet so
full, so sinister, so fierce and so distorted, that she drew a sudden
breath and sat up, trembling....

... Why had they spoken to her of Topcliffe?...

CHAPTER III

I

It was a soft winter's morning as the party came down the little slope
towards the entrance-gate of the Tower next day. The rain last night had
cleared the air, and the sun shone as through thin veils of haze, kindly
and sweet. The river on the right was at high tide, and up from the
water's edge came the cries of the boatmen, pleasant and invigorating.