Volle kneeled beside him on the cold sharp stones and tended him as a mother might her sick child, applying to the wound leaves of black horehound and millefoil and other healing simples, and giving him to drink out of a flask of precious wine of Arshalmar, ripened for an age in the deep cellars below Krothering. So that in a while Spitfire opened his eyes and said, “Draw back the curtains of the bed, for ’tis many a day since I woke up in Owlswick. Or is it night indeed? How went the fight, then?” His eyes stared at the naked rocks and the naked sky beyond them. Then with a great groan he lifted himself on his right elbow. Volle put a strong arm about him, saying, “Drink the good wine, and have patience. There be great doings toward.” Spitfire stared round him awhile, then said violently, “Shall we be foxes and fugitive men to dwell in holes o’ the hollow mountain side? So the bright day is done, ha? Then off with these trammels.” And he fell a-tearing at the bandage on his wounds. But Volle prevented him with strong hands, saying, “Bethink thee how on thee alone, O glorious Spitfire, and on thy wise heart and valiant soul that delighteth in furious war, resteth all our hope to ward off from our lady wives and dear children and all our good land and fee the fury of the men of Witchland, and to save alive the great name of Demonland. Let not thy proud heart be capable of despair.” But Spitfire groaned and said, “Certain it was that woe and evil hap must be to Demonland until my kinsmen be gotten home again. And that day I think shall never dawn.” And he cried, “Boasted he not that he is king in Demonland? and yet I had not my sword in his umbles. And thou thinkest I’ll live in shame?” Therewithal he strove again to tear off the bandages, but Volle prevented him. And he raved and said, “Who was it forced me from the battle? ’Tis pity of his life, to have abused me so. Better dead than run from Corinius like a beaten puppy. Let me go, false traitors! I will amend this. I will die fighting. Let me go back.” Volle said, “Lift up thine eyes, great Spitfire, and behold the lady moon, how virgin free she walketh the wide fields of heaven, and the glory of the stars of heaven which in their multitudes attend her. And as little as earthly mists and storms do dim her, but though she be hid awhile yet when the tempest is abated and the sky swept bare of clouds there she appeareth again in her steadfast course, mistress of tides and seasons and swayer of the fates of mortal men: even such is the glory of sea-girt Demonland, and the glory of thine house, O Spitfire. And as little as commotions in the heavens should avail to remove these everlasting mountains, so little availeth disastrous war, though it be a great fight lost as was to-day, to shake down our greatness, that are mightiest with the spear from of old and able to make all earth bow to our glory.”