“It should have been your neck, instead,” said I, in no wise sympathetic. “And so it would, had I owned the forethought to have had you by the throat rather than your arm. You might better depart, sirrah; else I may yet wring round your head, for my spirit is hard laid siege to by some such twisting impulse.” That was enough; our moaning one made shift to get himself away through the trees and with not a trifle of expedition. “And now, what will you do?” I asked Rivera. “Oh, I shall remain here,” replied Rivera, simply, “and wait for him to return to his wits,” Here he pointed to his enemy. “He is a very bold, strong man, and perhaps when he has recovered and rested he may want to fight again.” This last sentence was vibrant of a dim hope. Turning from me, Rivera brought a little snow-water in his hat from a hollow where it had collected during the thaws and began to sprinkle the face of his fighting friend from Whitechapel. Leaving him upon these labors of grace and philanthropy--albeit I believe the thought uppermost in his innocent heart was that the smitten one, when duly revived, might declare for another battle--I again sought Peg. I went to her something stricken of my conscience and uneasy with the fear of having neglected my duties as her cavalier. I found her sitting upon the little knoll, her foot drawn under her, and she nursing her right ankle in a marked peculiar way. “Was not Rivera grand!” exclaimed Peg, as I came up. “And you, too, watch-dog: I shall never forget the picture of you”--Peg spoke in a bubbling way and as though she overflowed of ecstasy--“as you flung that crying creature in the faces of the others. It was a moment of nobility; I shall never miss it from my memory.” “And what has gone wrong with your foot?” said I, for from her crouching position and the manner in which she would caress her ankle I was struck with the fear of some disaster; nor was I wrong. “It is my ankle,” said Peg, and I could notice how her brow was wrung with the pain of it. “As I climbed upon this knoll in the first of it, my foot turned under me. I did not observe until just now how sharp was the injury.” That was the story; Peg's ankle, for all her strong high boots, had won to a grievous wrench. “Now that I've nothing else to think on,” said Peg, biting her lips to smother a cry, “it gives me torture like a knife.” “Your ankle,” said I, “is becoming swollen; and that in those tight-laced boots, let me say, should mean a torment of the inquisition.” My years in the field had made me deft of strains and bruises and, when need pressed, even broken bones and wounds more threatening. I straightway knelt down before Peg and began with care to make loose her footgear. What a little boot it was! “One and one-half” was the size, so Peg told me. I slipped the boot off with mighty tenderness and put it in the pocket of my coat.