"So!" said he. "Thou, at least, wert real, and not a phantom in those black dreams where I was laboring. Thou hast been at my side the livelong night?"
Merrylips nodded. She gave him the flasket, which still held a little of the wine and water, and the bread which was in her pocket, and she sat by him, while he propped himself on his elbow and ate and drank.
"I saw thee yesterday," said Fowell, presently.
"In the courtyard," answered Merrylips, in a low voice. "When Miles Digby—he tried to make me, but I didn't! I didn't!"
"I remember," said Fowell, and his eyes narrowed at the memory. "Child, what brought thee, bred among such as Digby, to succor me last night?"
Merrylips swallowed a lump in her throat before she could answer. Now that she heard Fowell speak in that firm voice, she no longer felt that she was protecting him. Instead she felt little and weary, and herself in sore need of his protection.
"It was—because of my brother," she whispered at last. "They made him prisoner, there at Loxford. I hope—perchance—some one had pity on him."
She was angry that it should be so, but as she thought of Munn, helpless and ill-treated, perhaps, as Fowell had been, she felt the tears gather upon her lashes.
At that Fowell sat up quickly, though he made a wry face at the effort that it cost him. He put his arm about her, and spoke as gently as one of her own Cavalier friends could have spoken.
"Cheerly, my lad! Tell me the name of this brother of thine, and when I come clear of Monksfield, I promise thee I'll do my best endeavor to seek him out and requite him for thy tenderness."