The rim of the sun was just showing above the eastern trees when they started to horse once more. Strangwayes, leaning heavily on Hugh, managed to climb into his saddle, and then he let his hand rest a moment on the boy’s shoulder, while he looked down at him. “So you are troubled for me?” he asked dryly. “More than I would be for any man, unless ’twere my father.” “You’re a brave lad, Hugh,” Strangwayes said irrelevantly. “I would fain hug you, if I would not topple out of my saddle if I tried. I thank Heaven ’twas not you got hurt by my fool’s trick last night.” Then he put his horse slowly forward, so Hugh mounted the bay and came after. They went at a gentler pace now, by the highway or by short cuts through the fields, for Strangwayes knew this country well, he explained, from his old experience in the king’s army. He kept a little in advance, one hand on the bridle rein, the other arm limp, and his whole body stooping a trifle forward. Hugh realized with a helpless pang that his friend was suffering, he dared not think how much, nor how it might end, yet he was powerless to aid him. Once, when they rode through a village where the people were astir about their morning business, he begged Strangwayes to stop and have his wound looked to, at least have drink to strengthen him. But the other shook his head, then spoke with pauses between phrases: “They’d not succor me for love, Hugh; we are not strong enough to force them; and for the rest, I’ve not a shilling to soften them.” “How?” “What I had was none too much to give that maid for the saving of our liberty, perchance our lives. At least, I rate my life thus high.” “And that I could be angry with you for such a matter as fooling with her!” Hugh broke out penitently. “’Tis for a man’s advantage to be friendly with all women,” Strangwayes answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “Had I sulked in her presence, like some haughty gentlemen I know of, we’d be tramping the road to a rebel prison now, Hugh. That knave Emry! I contrived to reach him a crack on the head with the butt of my pistol as I rode out, he’ll remember some days.” But after that one burst of everyday speech Strangwayes lapsed again into silence, with so slack a hold on the reins that Hugh, coming close alongside, ventured now and then to put hand to the bit and guide the black horse. Lines of pain were deepening in the wounded man’s brows and about his white lips, and once, as they descended a steep pitch abruptly, he only half stifled a groan. So when they reached the next village Hugh took matters into his own hands by pulling up both horses before a wayside tavern. “What’s to do?” Strangwayes asked listlessly. “I am going to get you drink,” Hugh answered, and jumping down from his horse entered the tavern and made for the common room. There he found a surly tapster, and, trying hard to be civil and yet not abject, begged: “Can you give me a glass of aqua vitæ? I’ve a wounded friend here—”