’Twas on this expedition that two or three of the captains I have mentioned halted for an hour or more at Temple, as well to recognize Joan’s extreme meritorious service, as to thank me for the part I had in bringing news of the Earl of Stamford’s advance. For ’twas this, they own’d, had saved them—the King’s message being but an exhortation and an advertisement upon some lesser matters, the most of which were already taken out of human hands by the turn of events. But though, as I learn’d, these gentlemen were full of compliments and professions of esteem, I neither saw nor heard them, being by this time delirious of a high fever that followed my wound. And not till three good weeks after, was I recover’d enough to leave my bed, nor, for many more, did my full strength return to me. No mother could have made a tenderer nurse than was Joan throughout this time. ’Tis to her I owe it that I am alive to write these words: and if the tears scald my eyes as I do so, you will pardon them, I promise, before the end of my tail is reach’d. In the first days of my recovery, news came to us (I forget how) that a solemn sacrament had been taken between the parties in Devon and Cornwall, and the country was at peace. Little I cared, at the time: but was content—now spring was come—to loiter about the tors, and while watching Joan at her work, to think upon Delia. For, albeit I had little hope to see her again, my late pretty comrade held my thoughts the day long. I shared them with nobody: for tho’ ’tis probable I had let some words fall in my delirium, Joan never hinted at this, and I never found out. To Joan’s company I was left: for her father, after saving my life that afternoon, took no further notice of me by word or deed; and the cat, Jan Tergagle (nam’d after a spirit that was said to haunt the moors hereabouts), was as indifferent. So with Joan I passed the days idly, tending the sheep, or waiting on her as she ploughed, or lying full length on the hillside and talking with her of war and battles. ’Twas the one topic on which she was curious (scoffing at me when I offered to teach her to read print), and for hours she would listen to stories of Alexander and Hannibal, Caesar and Joan of Arc, and other great commanders whose history I remember’d. One evening—’twas early in May—we had climb’d to the top of the grey tor above Temple, whence we could spy the white sails of the two Channels moving, and, stretch’d upon the short turf there, I was telling my usual tale. Joan lay beside me, her chin propp’d on one earth-stain’d hand, her great solemn eyes wide open as she listened. Till that moment I had regarded her rather as a man comrade than a girl, but now some feminine trick of gesture awoke me perhaps, for my fancy began to contrast her with Delia, and I broke off my story and sigh’d. “Art longing to be hence?” she asked. I felt ashamed to be thus caught, and was silent. She look’d at me and went on— “Speak out, lad.”