repeat slowly, "Randalin, his daughter. God pity her!"

Sister Wynfreda was no longer listening. She had quitted her hold upon the
gate and taken a step forward, straining her eyes. They had not deceived her.
Out of a tall mass of golden bloom at the farther end of the lane, an arm clad
in brown homespun had tossed itself for one delirious instant. Trailing her
robes over the daisied grass, the nun came upon a wounded man lying face
downward in the tangle.

There was little in that to awaken surprise; it would have been stranger had
warriors passed without leaving some such mute token in their wake. Yet when
the united strength of the four arms had turned the limp weight upon its back,
a cry of astonishment rose from each throat.

"The woodward of Avalcomb!"

"The hand of the Lord hath fallen!"

After a moment the younger woman said in a trembling voice, "The whisper in my
heart spoke truly. Dearest sister, put your arm under here, and we will get
him to his feet and bring him in, and he will tell us what has happened. See!
he is shaking off his swoon. After he has swallowed some of your wine, he will
be able to speak and tell us."

It was muscle-breaking work for women's backs, for though he tried
instinctively to obey their directions, the man was scarcely conscious; his
arms were like lead yokes upon his supporters' shoulders. Just within the gate
their strength gave out, and they were forced to put him down among the spicy
herbs. There, as one was pulling off her threadbare cloak to make him a
pillow, and the other was starting after her cordial, he opened his eyes.