“And you are really a little girl and not a water fay?” he asked half playfully and half wondering if there really could be such things, as so many people seriously believed. It was almost easier to believe in fairies than to believe that a little girl had actually swum that flood. “Of course I am; you have hurt your head and are talking nonsense.” It seemed hard to tell her who he was; this charming little maiden would then hate him like the rest. It was not that he thought that she could possibly be of serious assistance to him; but it was a vision of delight and there was a music in the sound of her voice that to the exile reminded him of his own country. Yet he felt it was his duty and indeed the child might be running great risks and get herself into dire trouble even by speaking to him, so intense was the hatred of the heretics. “Child, you must not help me. I am a heretic.” “I guessed that you were,” she said, and the large eyes were full of pity, “but somehow I feel that it is right to aid any one in distress.” “When you are older, little one, you will think differently. It is only your sweet natural child-heart that instinctively sees the right without prejudice or sophistry.” “I am afraid that I do not understand you; but we must not stop talking here, we must get you to a place of safety.” “Will your people help me?” he said, as a possible explanation occurred to him. “Are they of the reformed faith?” “Are they heretics? you mean; no, indeed.” There was just the suspicion of a touch of scorn in her voice; it was true that to her a heretic was a member of a despised class, but there was also a slight, commingling of bitterness that gave the ring to her words, and which he did not detect, when she thought of the unreasoning and uncharitable prejudice that Mistress Mowbray had shown the day before. “But that does not mean that I would not help you,” she went on. “See this is what we must do. Somehow or other we must get back to the other side and first I ought to bandage your head. Have you hurt yourself anywhere else?” She looked him up and down as she spoke. “Oh, your ankle is all swollen and bleeding where you have torn your hose; we must try and do something for that.” “That can wait for the present,” he said, glancing apprehensively at his shoes, which mercifully were still uninjured on his feet; “the worst thing is that I think that I have broken my collar bone. But before we do anything I must try and help you bandage your shoulder more satisfactorily for it is bleeding very badly. That will not be very easy,” he added, smiling, “as I have only one arm and you yourself cannot reach it.” She let him try and between them they managed it somehow, and he wondered again as he tenderly manipulated the bandage, how such a little fragile thing could be undertaking such a strenuous task.