With that he hit out squarely with his wiry, muscular arm—just once—and Nort went down in the bracken and lay quite still.
Fergus stood looking down at him: the silent face upturned, very white, very boyish, very beautiful, the soft hair tumbling about his temples, the lax arms spread out among the leaves. And all around the still woods, and quiet fields, and the robins singing, and the sun coming up over the hill.
As Fergus looked down his breast began to heave and the tears came into his eyes.
"The bonnie, bonnie lad," he said; "he wadna run awa'."
Presently Nort stirred uneasily.
"Where am I?" he asked.
"Come, now," said Fergus tenderly, "we'll get down ta the brook."
With one arm around him, Fergus helped him through the woods, and knelt beside him while he dashed the cold water over his face and head.
"I hit ye hard," said Fergus, "and it's likely yer eye'll be blackened."
Nort sat down with his back to a tree trunk. He was sick and dizzy. It seemed to him that the thing he wanted most in all the world was to be left alone.