"Not so. I am hunting herbs to make simples for the sick."
"Of a truth? Then never before now have I craved for an illness that I might select my leech."
Again she smiled and made a sheaf of the herbs, preparatory to binding it. The bundle was unruly, and several of the plants dropped. She bent to pick them up and others fell. Kenkenes came to her rescue and gathered them all into his large grasp.
"Now, while I hold it," he suggested.
With the most gracious self-possession she smoothed out the fiber, put it twice, thrice about the sheaf and knotted it, her fingers, cool and moist after their contact with the marsh sedge, touching the sculptor's more than once.
"There! I thank thee."
"Are there any sick in the camp?"
"Only those who have been blinded by the stone-dust. But I prepare for sickness during health."
"A wise provision. Would we might prepare for sorrow during contentment."
"We may lay up comfort for us against the coming of misfortune."