“Surely, yes. Why, lad, what be four rebels, up or down, to make this coil over? Hast never axed after me!”
“Joan—you are not hurt?”
In the darkness I sought her eyes, and, peering into them, drew back.
“Joan!”
“Hush, lad—bend down thy head, and let me whisper. I went too near—an’ one, that was over his knees, let fly wi’ his musket—an’ Jack, I have but a minute or two. Hush lad, hush—there’s no call! Wert never the man could ha’ tam’d me—art the weaker, in a way: forgie the word, for I lov’d thee so, boy Jack!”
Her arms were drawing down my face to her: her eyes dull with pain.
“Feel, Jack—there—over my right breast. I plugg’d the wound wi’ a peat turf. Pull it out, for ’tis bleeding inwards, and hurts cruelly—pull it out!”
As I hesitated, she thrust her own hand in and drew it forth, leaving the hot blood to gush.
“An’ now, Jack, tighter—hold me tighter. Kiss me—oh, what brave times! Tighter, lad, an’ call wi’ me—‘Church an’ King!’ Call, lad—‘Church an’—’”
The warm arms loosen’d: the head sank back upon my lap.