"I thought that the horse would have knocked the Welsh girl over," he said presently. "She was pretty nimble, however. That churl must have kicked your horse sharply to make him plunge as he did."
"Trod on his fetlock most likely," I answered. "Clumsy knave."
"Well, that huntsman knows how to use a lash, at all events, and he will have a care in future. But how my head does ache!"
"That is likely enough," I said, laughing. "It was a shrewd knock, and it kept you in that hole for the longest hour and a half I have ever known."
"It does take somewhat out of the common to hurt me much," he said simply.
"Well, by tomorrow you will be famed all over Glastonbury as the man who fell over Cheddar cliffs and escaped by reason of lighting on the thickest part of him," I answered.
It was a poor jest enough, but it set him laughing. I did not wish him to say more of what had just happened, for I was puzzled about it, and wanted to get my thoughts to work. He had spoken of the very thing that I had been warned of, for almost had I taken the horn from the hand of a Briton--the Welsh girl of whom he spoke once before. I had forgotten her, for I do not think that I had ever seen her since she came here, until now. But at this moment I seemed to have a feeling that her face was in some way familiar to me, though only in that half-formed way that troubles one, and I was trying to recall how this might be.
Erpwald went off to the guest chamber where he was lodged, and presently I found our old leech and took him to see after him. He went comfortably to sleep after his hurt had been dressed, and so I left him. I will say at once that he felt no more trouble from it.
Then I went to the stables to see how fared my horse after the day's work, and found him enjoying his feed after grooming. I looked him over, but I could see no mark to show where the man might have hurt him. But as I was running my hand along the smooth hock to feel for any bruise, my groom said to me:
"Have you had a roll in a thorn bush, Master?"