By this I knew the troopers were close, and seeking me. A foolish thought came that I was buried, and they must be rummaging over my grave: but indeed I had no wish to enquire into it; no wish to move even, but just to lie and enjoy the lightness of my limbs. The blood was still running. I felt the warmth of it against my back: and thought it very pleasant. So I shut my eyes and dropp’d off again.
Then I heard the noise of shouting, far away: and a long while after that, was rous’d by the touch of a hand, thrust in against my naked breast, over my heart.
“Who is it?” I whispered.
“Joan,” answered a voice, and the hand was withdrawn.
The darkness had lifted somewhat, and though something stood between me and the light, I mark’d a number of small specks, like points of gold dotted around me—
“Joan—what besides?”
“Joan’s enough, I reckon: lucky for thee ’tis none else. Joan o’ the Tor folks call me, but may jet be Joan i’ Good Time. So hold thy peace, lad, an’ cry out so little as may be.”
I felt a ripping of my jacket sleeve and shirt, now clotted and stuck to the flesh. It pain’d cruelly, but I shut my teeth: and after that came the smart and delicious ache of water, as she rinsed the wound.
“Clean through the flesh, lad:—in an’ out, like country dancin’. No bullet to probe nor bone to set. Heart up, soce! Thy mother shall kiss thee yet. What’s thy name?”
“Marvel, Joan—Jack Marvel.”