He watched her while she stirred and tasted and added salt. He was smiling. When she lifted him, pillows and all, propped against her strong arm, and held the bowl to his lips at a compelling angle, he laughed outright. It was rather a feeble thing in the way of laughs, but to Pomona it was as wonderful and beautiful an achievement as a child’s first word in the mother’s ear. “Drink,” she said, firmly, while her heart throbbed in joy. “Now you must sleep,” she added, as she settled him with extraordinary art. But sleep was far away from those curious wandering eyes. “Bring the light closer and come to the bed again.” His voice had gained strength from Pomona’s fine broth, and it rang in command. Without another word she obeyed him. As she sat down on the little oaken stool, where he could see her, the light fell on her face, and from behind her the fire shot ruddily in her crown of hair. “I remember you now,” said he, lifting himself on his elbow. “You stood in the sunrise gathering apples for preserve; you are the nymph of the orchard.” He fell back, with a sigh of satisfaction. “And your name is Pomona,” said he. The girl, her capable, work-marked hands lying folded on her knee, sat in absolute stillness; but her heart was beating stormily under the folds of her kerchief. The sick man’s beard had grown close and fine round chin and cheeks during these long dreams of his. His hair lay in a mass on one shoulder; it had been carefully tied back with a riband, and in all that black setting the pallor of his countenance seemed deathlike. Yet she knew that he was saved. He lay a while, gazing at the beflowered ceiling of the great four-post bed, and by and by his voice came sighing. “And after that, what hap befell me? Help me to remember.” “I found you in the wood,” said she, slowly. “You were lying wounded.” He interrupted her with a sharp cry. “Enough! I mind me now. Was I alone?” “Quite alone, my lord.” “And my sword?” There was a current of evil eagerness running through the feeble voice. “Your sword, my lord?” “Pshaw! was it clean, child? Bore it no sign upon the blade?” “There was blood on it,” said Pomona, gravely, “to a third of the length.” The duelist gave a sigh. “That is well,” said he, and fell once more into silence, striving to knit present and past in his mind. After a while he shifted himself on his pillows so that he again looked on her. Then his eyes wandered round the dark paneling, on the polished surface of which the firelight gleamed like rosy flowers. He touched the coarse sheet, the patchwork quilt, then lifted the sleeve of the homespun shirt that covered his thin arm, and gazed inquiringly from it to the quiet woman. “How do I come here? Where am I?” queried he, imperiously. “I brought you; you are in my house,” she answered him. “You brought me?” “Ay, my lord.” “You found me wounded,” he puzzled, drawing his haughty brows together, “and you brought me here to your house? How?”