Beatrix of Clare | Page 3

seat on the fallen tree.
"A pretty mess," he mused--"a stranger in England--my first day at
Windsor and the jest of the castle. . . Stripped like a jowly
tradesman . . . taken like a cooing babe . . . purseless . . . daggerless . . .
bonnetless . . . doubletless--aye, naked, but for an outlaw's
generosity . . . cut by my own weapon"--he held up his hand and looked
at the abraded knuckles--"and that is all the credit I have to show--the
mark of a caitiff's chin. . . Methinks I am fit only for the company of
children."

He glanced again at the sun--it seemed not to have moved at all--then
sat in moody silence; the wound was smarting now, and he frowned at
it every time it gave an extra twinge. . . Would the sun never move? . . .
He got up and paced back and forth, his eyes on the oak at every
turn--truly that tree was growing higher every minute--or the sun was
sinking. . . Not that he was in haste to return to Windsor. . . There
would be a fine tale to tell there--no need to speed to it--it would speed
to him quite soon enough. . . . But to get away from the accursed
place--anywhere . . . back to Windsor even . . . what if some one found
him here in this plight--and he not allowed to speak--unable to
explain--dumb as that oak. . . Would the sun never move! The wound
was stinging sharply, and the arm above the cord was turning black and
swelling fast--the pressure must come off. He felt for his dagger; then
flung out an imprecation, and tried to tear the cord asunder with his
teeth. It was quite futile; it was sunk now so deep in the flesh he could
not seize it--and the knots were drawn too tight to loose. . . Would the
sun never move!
He fell to searching for a stone--a small one with an edge that could
reach in and rasp the deer-hide cord apart--but vainly; though he tried
many, only to leave his arm torn and bleeding. . . Yet at last the sun had
moved--it was up among the thinner branches.
Of a sudden, back in the forest rose the deep bay of a mastiff . . . and
presently again--and nearer . . . and a third time--and still nearer . . . and
then down the path came the great tawny dog, tail arched forward, head
up--and behind him a bay horse, a woman in the saddle.
"Down, Rollo, down!" she cried, as the mastiff sprang ahead. . .
"Beside me, sir!" and the dog whirled instantly and obeyed.
De Lacy bethought himself of his cloak, and hurrying to where it lay he
tried to fling it around his shoulders, but with only one hand and his
haste he managed badly and it slipped off and fell to the ground. As he
seized it again the horse halted behind him.
"You are wounded, sir," she said; "permit me to aid you."

He turned slowly, bowing as he did so--he dared not speak--then
glanced up, and almost spoke in sheer amazement, as he beheld the
slender figure in green velvet--the sweet, bow-shaped mouth, the
high-bred, sensitive nose, the rounded chin, the tiny ear, the soft, deep
grey eyes, and, crowning all, the great rolls of the auburn hair that
sunbeams spin to gold.
"Come, sir," said she, "I stopped to aid you, not to be stared at."
De Lacy flushed and made to speak, then checked himself, and with
another bow held up his arm and motioned for her to cut the cord.
"Merciful Mother!" she exclaimed, and severed it with a touch of her
bodkin.
The blood flooded fiercely forward and the wound began to bleed
afresh.
"The bandage needs adjusting--come," and slipping from saddle she
tossed the rein to the dog and went over to the fallen tree. "Sit down,"
she ordered.
With a smile De Lacy obeyed; as yet she did not seem to note his
silence. And it was very pleasant indeed--the touch of her slim fingers
on his bare arm--the perfume of her hair as she bent over the work--the
quick upward glance at times of her grey eyes questioning if she hurt
him. He was sorry now there were not a dozen wounds for her to dress.
"There, that will suffice until you get proper attendance," she said,
tying the last knot and tucking under the ends.
He took her hand and bowing would have kissed it; but she drew it
away sharply and turned to her horse. Then she stopped and looked at
him in sudden recollection.
"Parbleu, man, where is your tongue?"