“That blood must be staunched. Those rogues should have stood and fought for you.” “Let them run. Master Greenshield, methinks you have broken my brain pan with that blow of yours. Let me lie down on something soft. I feel sick as a dog that has eaten grass.” Martin sheathed his sword, picked up Swartz in his arms, and carried him over the footbridge. He remembered his own bed of bracken at the foot of the stairs, and he bore the wounded man there and laid him on the fern. “Thanks, Greenshield. My head’s full of molten metal. No—let me lie. I’ll just curse and burrow into the fern, I have had worse wounds than this in my time.” He stretched out a hand suddenly. “No bad blood—no grudges! I’m your prisoner; I play fair.” Martin gripped his hand hard and went back to the gate. Mellis had been lying in the bracken, listening to the rout of Swartz’s gentry in the wood behind her. For five men they made a fine noise and flutter in getting to horse, and it was like the flight of a small army, what with their shouting and their quarreling as to what should be done. She heard them galloping away into the Forest, for they were in frank agreement upon the main issue, and that was to have nothing more to do with that devil of a man in white harness who held the bridge at Woodmere. Mellis rose up, and went down toward the mere, her heart full of Martin’s victory. He came out through the gate as she reached the causeway and crossed the footbridge to meet her. He had taken off his salade, and so came to her bare-headed, flushed, brave-eyed, and triumphant. The sheen of her eyes opened the gates of heaven. She was exultant, glorious, a woman whose love had taken fire. “Martin Valliant—oh, brave heart! What a fight was that! I thought you mad when you came out on the bridge.” He could find nothing to say to her, but his eyes gave her an answer. “You little thought that I was watching you.” This made him smile. “Yes, I knew that you were up yonder. I saw you looking down from behind a tree. I think I could have beaten twenty men—because you were watching me.” “Am I so fierce?” “No, it is not that,” he said, quite simply. Mellis knew what was in his heart, and the cry that echoed to it in her own. She looked at him with a sudden, tremulous light in her eyes. “I would have a man brave and staunch—for my sake. It is very sweet to a woman when she is lonely.” Martin dared not look at her for a moment. He was her man so utterly that he could have kissed the dust from her feet, for the love in him was great and passionate and holy. “I did what my heart bade me,” he said, “and not to shame this sword.” “Yes, give me the sword.” “It is all bloody.” “What matter. It is but a christening.” He drew the sword from its scabbard and gave it into her hands. And Mellis kissed the cross of the hilt, and held it for him to take. “That is a second sacrament,” he said; “I shall need no other crucifix.”