“Oh no,” said Denis, laughing, and quite taken by the friendly chatter of his new acquaintance. “One wants to grow up, of course; but I don’t know that I ever felt like that.”
“Perhaps not,” said his companion, busily helping him with his garments; “but then you see you’re not at Court where there are a lot of fellows who have been there for a bit, ready to look down upon you just because you’re new, and glare at you and seem ready to pick a quarrel and to fight if ever the King gives you a friendly nod or a smile.—No, no: I’ll tie those points. Don’t hurt your arm—but wait a bit.—I am young and inexperienced yet, and they’re too much for me, but I am hard at it.”
He ceased speaking, but stood with his mouth pursed up, frowning, as he tied the points in question.
“I see you are,” said Denis, “playing servant to me; and it’s very good of you, for my arm does feel very bad.”
“Good! Nonsense!” cried the lad merrily. “You’d do the same for me if I were visiting at your father’s house, and crippled.”
“That couldn’t be,” said Denis sadly. “I have no father’s house—he’s dead.”
“Oh, I am sorry!”
“He was a soldier, and died fighting for the King.”
“Hah!” said the other softly. “That’s very pitiful; but,” he added, with more animation, “it is very grand as well.—No, no, no: be quiet! I’m here, and what’s the good of making your arm worse? You’re a visitor; and you wouldn’t like me to go away and send one of our fellows. I shall be a knight some day, I hope; and it’s a knight’s duty to fight, of course, but he ought to be able to help a wounded man. Now you’re a wounded man and I’m going to help you, wash you and all, and I say, you want it too. You look as if you had been down in the dust. And what’s this? Why, there’s clay matted in the back of your neck!”
“Well,” said Denis, smiling, “I am such a cripple I can’t help myself, and so I must submit.”