They entered Woodmere, and Martin raised the bridge and closed the gate. “You took a prisoner.” He remembered Swartz, brain-sick and groaning. “Their captain! A good fighter—and a generous. I must wash his wound; and if I could find linen——” “You shall have linen. I love that softness in you, comrade; good soldiers are made so.” She turned aside through the postern into the garden, and Martin went to look at Swartz. He was sitting up, holding his head between his hands, but the blood had ceased flowing. “Ah, Brother Greenshield, get me out into the sunlight. I would rather lie on the green grass—under those apple trees. This place smells of the coffin.” Martin helped him up. “That wound of yours must be dressed. Mistress Mellis is finding me linen.” Swartz put an arm around him. “Deo gratias, but I guess I owe this crack of the poll to her. Well, I bear her no ill-will. And I have a liking for you, Greenshield, a man after my own heart.” “We were trying to kill each other half an hour ago.” “Lord, man, are we the worse for that?” Martin helped Swartz out into the orchard and propped him against a tree. And there Mellis found them like brethren in arms when she brought linen and red wine. “I have found you linen, Martin Valliant.” But she did not tell him that she had torn it from her own shift. Swartz had a look at her as she turned to go. “Saints, brother, but some things are well lost for a woman.” Martin’s eyes grew grim. “Tush, man, I did not speak lightly. Never flare out at Peter Swartz; he is too old a ruffian.” Martin fetched water from the mere in his salade and washed and dressed Swartz’s head for him. He gave him wine to drink, and Swartz was glad of it. “Zounds, that’s good. Now, by my soul, I think I will spend the night here, out of the dew, and with the stars blinking above. I have a love of the green earth, Martin Valliant; I was not bred in a city. And look you here, man——” Martin gazed at him steadily. “You took me in fair fight, and here I shall stay, so long as you hold the place. I swear to keep faith, and to play no tricks on you. And here’s the hand of a soldier.” Martin accepted the pledge. “My heart trusts you,” he said. “One word, lad: never trust the man I serve—or did serve—Roger Bland, if you have him as you have me now. I am a war-dog, but he is a cold snake. Put your heel on his head, and spare no weight.” _Chapter XXIV_ The sun sank low in the west, and the whole world was very still. Peter Swartz had fallen asleep under his apple tree in the orchard, and the white blossom scattered itself on him as he slept.