All the bone-setters and surgeons had gone to the camp, and he was left
without attendance other than the women, who fomented the foot daily,
but he had little hope of present recovery, knowing that such things
were often months about.

He thought it lucky that it was no worse, for very few, he had noticed,
ever recovered from serious wounds of spear or arrow. The wounded
generally died; only the fortunate escaped. Thus he ran on, talking as
much for his own amusement as that of his guest. He fretted because he
could not join the camp and help work the artillery; he supposed the ram
would be in position by now and shaking the wall with its blow. He
wondered if Baron Ingulph would miss his face.

"Who's he?" asked Felix.

"He is captain of the artillery," replied his host.

"Are you his retainer?"

"No; I am a servant."

Felix started slightly, and did but just check himself from rising from
the table. A "servant" was a slave; it was the euphemism used instead of
the hateful word, which not even the most degraded can endure to bear.
The class of the nobles to which he belonged deemed it a disgrace to sit
down with a slave, to eat with him, even to accidently touch him. With
the retainers, or free men, they were on familiar terms, though despotic
to the last degree; the slave was less than the dog. Then, stealing a
glance at the man's face, Felix saw that he had no moustache; he had not
noticed this before. No slaves were allowed to wear the moustache.