Lionel lurched in, closed the door, and shot home one of its bolts.
Then he leaned against it, facing his brother again. He was deathly
pale, with great dark stains under his eyes; his ungloved right hand was
pressed to his side, and the fingers of it were all smeared with blood
that was still oozing and dripping from between them. Over his yellow
doublet on the right side there was a spreading dark stain whose nature
did not intrigue Sir Oliver a moment.

"My God!" he cried, and ran to his brother. "What's happened, Lal? Who
has done this?"

"Peter Godolphin," came the answer from lips that writhed in a curious
smile.

Never a word said Sir Oliver, but he set his teeth and clenched his
hands until the nails cut into his palms. Then he put an arm about this
lad he loved above all save one in the whole world, and with anguish in
his mind he supported him forward to the fire. There Lionel dropped to
the chair that Sir Oliver had lately occupied.

"What is your hurt, lad? Has it gone deep?" he asked, in terror almost.

"'Tis naught--a flesh wound; but I have lost a mort of blood. I thought
I should have been drained or ever I got me home."

With fearful speed Sir Oliver drew his dagger and ripped away doublet,
vest, and shirt, laying bare the lad's white flesh. A moment's
examination, and he breathed more freely.

"Art a very babe, Lal," he cried in his relief. To ride without thought