and Achilles followed. "Alcie--got hurt," whispered the boy. He was
trembling with fear and excitement, and he pointed to the bed across the
room.

Achilles stepped, with lightest tread, and looked down. A boy, half
asleep, murmured and turned his head restlessly. A red-clotted blur ran
along the forehead, and the face, streaked with mud, was drawn in a look
of pain. As Achilles bent over him, the boy cried out and threw up a
hand; then he turned his head, muttering, and dozed again.

Achilles withdrew lightly, beckoning to the boy beside him.

Yaxis followed, his eyes on the figure on the bed. "All day," he said,
"he lie sick."

Achilles closed the door softly and turned to him. "Tell me, Yaxis, what
happened," he said.

The boy's face opened dramatically. "I look up--I see Alcie--like
that--" his gesture fitted to the room--"He stand in door--all covered
mud--blood run--cart broke--no fruit--no hat." The boy's hands were
everywhere, as he spoke, dispensing fruit, smashing carts and filling up
the broken words with horror and a flow of blood. Achilles's face grew
grave. The Greeks were not without persecution in the land of freedom,
and his boy had lain all day suffering--while he had been lost in the
great house by the lake.

He took off his coat and turned back his sleeves. "You bring water," he
said gently. "We will see what hurts him."