Angry? Gods! My heart was heavier than it had been all that day of dint and carnage, and my eyes were dim and my lips were dry with a knowledge of the coming grief as I bent and kissed her. She took the kiss unresisting, as though it were her right, and gasped again:
“And you understand now all—everything? Why I ransomed the French maiden? Why I would not write for thee to thy unknown mistress?”
“I know—I know, sweet girl!”
“And you bear no ill-thought of me?”
“The great Heaven you believe in be my witness, sweet Isobel! I love you, and know of nothing else!”
She lay back upon me, seeming to sleep for a moment or two, then started up and clapped her hands to her ears, as if to shut out the sound of bygone battle that no doubt was still thundering through them, then swooned again, while I bent in sorrow over her and tried in vain to soothe and stanch the great wound that was draining out her gentle life.
She lay so still and white that I thought she were already dead; but presently, with a gasp, her eyes opened, and she looked wistfully to where the western sky was hanging pale over the narrow English sea.
“How far to England, dear friend?”
“A few leagues of land and water, sweet maid!”
“Could I reach it, dost thou think?” But then, on an instant, shaking her head, she went on: “Nay, do not answer; I was foolish to ask. Oh! dearest, dearest sister Alianora! My father—my gentlest father! Oh! tell them, Sir, from me—and beg them to forgive!” And she lay back white upon my shoulder.