As with the sting of arrows the words drove her forward. Ah, she needed no further telling to conjure up the scene: her kinsman had spoken lightly of her and her young lover had struck back the insult. Her boy lover! His youth, that had been his disability in her eyes, now became eloquent to plead for him. To see him lie there, pale and blood-stained, a mere lad.—After the way of women, on the moment her heart melted all to him.
“Harry, Harry! …” she cried, and the words were tender as a caress.
Harry turned his languid head.
“And now I cannot ride with you to-morrow—not even did my lord so permit! Father…!” Faintness was creeping over him again, but he made an effort. His voice rang out: “Father, will you escort her? My Diana!”
It was at once a supreme declaration of confidence and a solemn charge. The father bowed his head.
“Your Diana, lad, so be it—I accept the trust.”
Over the poor wounded body the eyes of Rakehell Rockhurst met those of Diana. There was a steady sweetness of renunciation in his, that she had seen there once before. Hers were quickly veiled again, lest they betray the singular, sharp pain that filled her heart.
At her swiftest gait, important, yet showing no alarm, Mistress Rockhurst advanced, followed by a couple of wenches, bearing varied paraphernalia. She had lived through the wars—it were a parlous wound indeed she could not cope with. In her own hands she carried a flask of renowned cordial. None too soon, it seemed, for the colour on the pretty boyish head lying between Rockhurst and Diana was fading fast again.