Outside the ilex clump, Clerivault, white and grim, stood waiting in the thunderous dusk. He had volunteered to dare the terrors of the awful place; but Brion, seeing what the offer cost him, had laughingly declined his company, saying he could manage much better by himself. They took the stranger between them, and, without more ado, carried rather than supported him to the house, and, smuggling him by a back way to the upper chamber, remotest from Quentin Bagott’s quarters, which had been prepared for him, put him to bed, and left him in the hands of that old wintry bird of prey, Mother Harlock, who forthwith proceeded to examine his hurts with the dark relish peculiar to her kind. Coming to seek Brion presently, she gave him, in a muttered whisper, the result of her diagnosis:—
‘The man’s sore smitten.’
‘Will he die?’
‘A hath a dog’s chance—given my vuln’ry water. ’Twere distilled from the plantain in the year of its becoming a bird.’
‘Of what becoming a bird? The plantain? Does the plantain become a bird?’
‘Every seventh year, and cries “cuckoo!” Did you not know it, child?’
‘On my faith, no.’
‘Ay. ’Tis the reason it lacks a nest of its own.’
‘But——’ he gave it up, bubbling with expressionless laughter. ‘You had better go and get it,’ said he.
He had hoped for something more informative. As it was, her verdict left him exactly where he had been. However, there was no help for it; the man was there, and there he must now remain, until Destiny decided one way or the other on the question of his disposal. In the meantime the faithful souls who were to represent his authority during his absence would see to it that his instructions were implicitly carried out.