"Make answer that he is sore stricken, and in parlous case; but an we may get him to a place of shelter, he may do well."
Ralph returned and reported the message.
"Is there no other horse but mine? If not, take mine and leave me here," said Lord Woodville simply.
He had drawn his sword, and was holding it by the blade before him. The sword thus held had all the proportions of a Latin cross.
"'Thou shalt love thine enemies. Do good to those who hate thee,'" murmured the wounded Captain of the Wight.
"My lord, there is the knight's own horse, or he can have mine."
"Haste thee, then! gentle youth, for his wounds and mine are growing stiff, and there is need of shelter," faintly gasped the wounded Captain.
With rather more difficulty Ralph caught the other horse, and led it up to the little group in the snow. Then, by dint of hard exertion, the Hermit of St Catherine's--for it was he who had come to their aid--and Ralph lifted the wounded knight on to his horse, and the old man holding him in his high-peaked saddle, with the slight figure leading the horse by its bridle, they disappeared in the grey obscurity.
Ralph now returned to his lord. To his surprise and joy he found the Captain of the Wight had risen to his feet. The Hermit had removed the corslet, extracted the spear-head, and staunched the wound with some balsam and simples for healing sword or lance wounds. With effort he was able to mount his horse, and with Ralph holding the bridle, and ready to steady his lord in his saddle should he feel faint or giddy, the two figures wended their way over the snow towards Carisbrooke Castle.
It was a weary journey, and Ralph never felt so relieved in his life as when he descried the noble pile standing up black and grand in the midst of the white landscape.