“I carried you,” said Pomona. “You carried me!” The statement was so amazing and Lord Blantyre’s wits were still so weakened that he turned giddy and was fain to close his eyes and allow the old vagueness to cradle him again for a few minutes. Pomona prayed that he might be sleeping, but as she was stealthily rising from his bedside he opened his eyes and held her with them. “You carried me, you brought me to your own house? Why?” “I wanted to nurse you,” said poor Pomona. She knew no artifice whereby she could answer, yet conceal the truth. But it was as if her heart were being torn from her bit by bit. His eyes, hard and curious, softened; so did the imperious voice. “How did you keep them out?” “Keep them out?” She was beautiful, but she was dull. “My kinsfolk, from the castle.” Pomona stood like a child caught in grave fault. “They do not know,” she answered, at last. It was his turn to ejaculate in amazement. “Not know!” “I did not want them,” said she, then, doggedly. “I did not want any fine ladies about, nor physicians with their lancets. When my father was cut with the scythe, they sent a leech from the castle, who blooded him, and he died. I did not want you to die.” She spoke the last words almost in a whisper, then she waited breathlessly. There came a low sound from the pillows. His laugh that had been music to her a minute ago now stabbed her to the heart. She turned, the blood flashing into her cheeks; yet his face grew quickly grave; he spoke, his voice was kind. “Stay. I want to understand. You carried me, all by yourself, from the wood; is it so?” “Ay.” “And no one knows where I am, or that you found me?” “No. I went down to the wood again and brought back your coat and your sword and scabbard and your gloves. I forbade my people to speak. None of the great folk know you are here.” “And you nursed me?” “Ay.” “Was I long ill?” “Fourteen days.” “I have been near death, have I not?” “You have, indeed.” “And you nursed me!” he repeated again. “How did you learn such science?” “My lord, I have loved and cared for the dumb things all my life. There was the calf that was staked----” She stopped; that laugh was torture. “Go on, Pomona!” “I bathed your wound in cold water over and over till the bleeding stopped, and then, when the fever came, I knew what brew of herbs would help you. One night I thought that you would die----” “Go on, Pomona!” “You could not breathe, no matter how high I laid you on the pillows----” “Ay! Why dost thou halt again? What didst thou then?” “I held you in my arms,” she said. “You seemed to get your breath better that way, and then you slept at last.” “While you held me?” he proceeded. “How long did you hold me in your arms, Pomona?” “My lord,” she said, “the whole night.”