“The sun has been down for hours. You have been in a swoon first, and then talk’d—oh, such nonsense! Shame on me, to let you catch this chill!” She help’d me to my feet and steadied me: and how we reached the hut I cannot tell you. It took more than one weary hour, as I now know; but, at the time, hours and minutes were one to me. In that hut I lay four nights and four days, between ague fit and fever. And that is all the account I can give of the time, save that, on the second day, the girl left me alone in the hut and descended to the plain, where, after asking at many cottages for a physician, she was forced to be content with an old woman reputed to be amazingly well skill’d in herbs and medicines; whom, after a day’s trial, she turn’d out of doors. On the fourth day, fearing for my life, she made another descent, and coming to a wayside tavern, purchased a pint of aqua vitae, carried it back, and mix’d a potion that threw me into a profuse sweat. The same evening I sat up, a sound man. Indeed, so thoroughly was I recover’d that, waking early next morning, and finding my sweet nurse asleep from sheer weariness, in a corner of the hut, I stagger’d up from my bed of dried bracken, and out into the pure air. Rare it was to stand and drink it in like wine. A footstep arous’d me. ’Twas Mistress Delia: and turning, I held out my hand. “Now this is famous,” said she: “a day or two will see you as good a man as ever.” “A day or two? To-morrow at latest, I shall make trial to start.” I noted a sudden change on her face, and added: “Indeed, you must hear my reasons before setting me down for an ingrate;” and told her of the King’s letter that I carried. “I hoped that for a while our ways might lie together,” said I; and broke off, for she was looking me earnestly in the face. “Sir, as you know, my brother Anthony was to have met me—nay, for pity’s sake, turn not your face away! I have guess’d—the sword you carry—I mark’d it. Sir, be merciful, and tell me!” I led her a little aside to the foot of a tall pine; and there, tho’ it rung my heart, told her all; and left her to wrestle with this final sorrow. She was so tender a thing to be stricken thus, that I who had dealt the blow crept back to the hut, covering my eyes. In an hour’s time I look’d out. She was gone. At nightfall she return’d, white with grief and fatigue; yet I was glad to see her eyes red and swol’n with weeping. Throughout our supper she kept silence; but when ’twas over, look’d up and spoke in a steady tone—— “Sir, I have a favor to ask, and must risk being held importunate—” “From you to me,” I put in, “all talk of favors had best be dropp’d.”