"Friends."
He gazed wildly round, then sank with a deep groan back on the bier.
"Take him to the infirmary, and on the morrow we will see him."
A chance medley on the downs—a free fight between two who met by chance—was so common, that the Abbot thought far less of the matter than we may imagine.
"Insooth, he is ghastly," he said, "but in the more need of our aid. I trust we shall save both soul and body. Let the dog also have food and shelter."
But the dog would not leave his master's side, and they were forced to move both into the same cell, where the poor beast kept licking the hand which dropped pendent from the couch.
"My lord Abbot, there are weightier matters to consider than the welfare of one poor wounded wayfarer, who has fallen among thieves."
"What are they?"
"Didst thou mark the bale-fire on Synodune last night?"
"We did, and marvelled what it could mean."