"Merciful Mother!" she exclaimed, and severed it with a touch of her
bodkin.

The blood flooded fiercely forward and the wound began to bleed afresh.

"The bandage needs adjusting--come," and slipping from saddle she
tossed the rein to the dog and went over to the fallen tree. "Sit
down," she ordered.

With a smile De Lacy obeyed; as yet she did not seem to note his
silence. And it was very pleasant indeed--the touch of her slim
fingers on his bare arm--the perfume of her hair as she bent over the
work--the quick upward glance at times of her grey eyes questioning if
she hurt him. He was sorry now there were not a dozen wounds for her
to dress.

"There, that will suffice until you get proper attendance," she said,
tying the last knot and tucking under the ends.

He took her hand and bowing would have kissed it; but she drew it away
sharply and turned to her horse. Then she stopped and looked at him in
sudden recollection.

"Parbleu, man, where is your tongue?" she demanded. "You had one last
night."

Where she had seen him he did not know; he had not seen her--and it
only tangled the matter the more, for now she would know he was not
dumb. But how to explain?