Agnes, with bowl in hand, slowly mounted the stairs to the loft. On Polly’s best feather-bed, covered warmly with skins, lay the wounded man. His eyes were closed, but, at the sound of Agnes’s gentle voice, he opened them. “Here is some porridge for you,” the girl said.
“Thank you, but I don’t care for it.”
“You must take it. Polly says so. She is the best nurse in the world.”
The young man smiled. “Well, if Polly says so, I suppose that settles it. Will you bring it close, and may I ask you to raise my head a little?”
Agnes pushed the pillow further under his shoulders and raised his head, holding the bowl while he drank his gruel.
“I’d like to sit up a little. I want to look out,” said the young man.
Agnes made a roll of some skins which she brought from the next room, and by their aid he was propped up; then she drew aside the curtain from the little window and stood waiting.
SHE DREW ASIDE THE CURTAIN FROM THE LITTLE WINDOW
“It is good to see the outside world again,” he said. “It is familiar enough. I think it is time for explanations. Will you tell me how I came to be here, and why you are here, and who you all are? I’ve had glimpses of the reality of it all, though I suppose my mind has been wandering a bit, too. How long have I been in this bed?”