She kept her arm about him, for there was nothing else for her to do, and he would have fallen had she not held him. Aymery’s face was as white as linen, and she could feel him quivering as he stood. “Peter of Savoy’s men, we were caught yonder, Grimbald and I.” He spoke in jerks, and tried to stand apart from her, as though one purpose had carried him so far, and as though the same purpose dominated him still. “I want breath, that is all; they pressed us hard, there, at Goldspur; we broke through, and I ran for the hills. You must go, Denise, to-night; make for one of the coast towns. I can look to myself.” He was at the end of his strength, however, for all his hardihood, with a sword cut through the shoulder, an arrow broken in his thigh. Denise could see nothing of all this, but she knew that he could hardly stand. Moreover, he had struggled up into the wood to warn her, and her heart was the heart of a woman though the people called her a saint. Looking back over her shoulder she saw tongues of yellow flame rising from Goldspur in the valley. Gaillard’s men had set fire to the place. The glow from it caught Aymery’s eyes as he stood, swaying at the knees, great sickness upon him, even his wrath feeble in him because of his wounds and his weariness. “They have lit me a torch to travel by,” he said bitterly. Denise was shading her eyes with her hand. She turned swiftly upon Aymery, for she had seen mounted men moving on the hillside between her, and the burning house. “Lord,” she said simply, “yesterday, you were afraid for my sake; to-night, it is I who fear.” Her eyes met his, and held them. The secret thoughts of the day no longer had their half treacherous significance. Denise had no thought of self in her that moment; the succouring hands hid the dull radiance of the heart beneath. “To-night you must rest and sleep.” He looked at her, as though trying to understand. The darkness began to deepen about him, and he felt cold, and numb to the core. “I can crawl to cover. If you could bring me wine and food, and a little linen——” She went close to him suddenly, and passed her hands over his hauberk. Touch told her the whole truth. She had no false shame to make her weak and careful. “Wounds, and you would have hidden them!” “A little blood, nothing more. Let me lie here, Denise.” “To die,” and her voice had a deep, quiet passion in it; “lord, would you choose death for a piece of pride! Come, I know the ways.” She put an arm about him, as though she was stronger than Aymery that night, and had the will and courage to do for him what he, in his full strength, would have done for her. Suffering and sickness sweep the small prides of life aside. The heart of a woman is as elemental, then, as the wind or the sea. “Lean on me.” He looked at her half rebelliously, and then hung his head, and obeyed.