The girl came and knelt beside him, opposite the Queen.
“Bertrade, tell me thou art real; that thou at least be no dream.”
“I be very real, dear heart,” she answered, “and these others be real, also. When thou art stronger, thou shalt understand the strange thing that has happened. These who were thine enemies, Norman of Torn, be thy best friends now—that thou should know, so that thou may rest in peace until thou be better.”
He groped for her hand, and, finding it, closed his eyes with a faint sigh.
They bore him to a cot in an apartment next the Queen’s, and all that night the mother and the promised wife of the Outlaw of Torn sat bathing his fevered forehead. The King’s chirurgeon was there also, while the King and De Montfort paced the corridor without.
And it is ever thus; whether in hovel or palace; in the days of Moses, or in the days that be ours; the lamb that has been lost and is found again be always the best beloved.
Toward morning, Norman of Torn fell into a quiet and natural sleep; the fever and delirium had succumbed before his perfect health and iron constitution. The chirurgeon turned to the Queen and Bertrade de Montfort.
“You had best retire, ladies,” he said, “and rest. The Prince will live.”
Late that afternoon he awoke, and no amount of persuasion or commands on the part of the King’s chirurgeon could restrain him from arising.
“I beseech thee to lie quiet, My Lord Prince,” urged the chirurgeon.