As he did so the eyes of the two young men met, and Gilbert Carr, as he gazed into those of his patient, felt a strange sense of mistrust pass over him like a foreboding of coming trouble; while on the other side, as the smooth young courtier looked into the bright, clear grey eyes, and scanned the dark, bronzed visage bending over him, he felt that they two would be enemies for a woman’s sake.
“That’s it—that’s better,” said Gilbert Carr, quietly. “You need have no fear for the consequences, sir. It is a clean cut, and will soon heal in our pure, fresh air.”
“I thank you,” said Sir Mark, rather stiffly; “I do not fear. Madam, I grieve to have caused you this trouble,” he continued, addressing Mace, who stood close by.
“Nay, sir; pray do not say that. It is we who are grieved—my father.”
“Ay, she’s right,” said Cobbe, advancing. “My brave lad, I feel ashamed to face you after such a stroke.”
“Ashamed!” said Sir Mark, with a quiet glance at Mace; and then, seeing his advantage, he said, smiling as he held out his uninjured hand, “Never be ashamed, sir, of so gallant a handling of your sword. They tell me in London I can fence, and that enemies who have fought make the best of friends.”
“You are a brave true gentleman, sir,” cried the founder, wringing the outstretched hand; “and I humbly ask your forgiveness for my choler. I was hot and angry. There, God bless the King; and I beg his Majesty’s pardon for what I said.”
“It is granted,” said Sir Mark, smiling faintly, “for he will never know.”
“Now let me say a word,” said Gil, who had been uneasily looking on. “Fever may come on if he is excited. Take my advice, sir, lie back and go to sleep. Mace—no, here is Janet—fetch a pillow for this gentleman.”
The girl ran out, and returned bearing one of snowy hue, which Gil adjusted beneath the wounded man’s head.