"Never its like!" Japhra answered him huskily—"never its like! Thou art the fighting type, my son. Long ago I said it. This night hath proved me!"
Percival sighed most luxuriously. Pleasant, pleasant to be lying there—bruised, tired, sore, but weariness and wounds bound up with victory. He put up a hand and took Ima's fingers that touched his face with ointment. "That's fine, Ima!" he smiled at her. "I saw you crying. You oughtn't to have been there. Did you think I was done for?"
She shook her head; tears were still in her eyes.
"Well, it's over now," he said affectionately. "Dry those eyes, Ima!"
She gave a catch at her breath. "Well, I am a woman," she told him, and her gentle fingers anointed his face again.
Their caress assisted him into drowsiness. Without opening his eyes he inquired presently:
"What's all that row? There's a frightful noise somewhere, isn't there?"
Japhra, who was looking through the forward window into the early dawn of the summer morning, turned to Ima and shook his head. She took his meaning and answered Percival: "It rains heavily. There is a storm coming up."
He dropped into slumber.
II