“It is a strange name, but somewhat musical. Edgar, I shall often think of you. I may even dream of you, but I shall dream of you and think of you as you must appear in battle leading on your men to storm a breach. But now, talk no longer lest you faint with weakness.”
“One question more, lady. You are going to have me taken to the house of a priest. But where do you yourself dwell?”
“Oh, many miles from here.”
“But will you never come to see me? My wounds may take many weeks to heal.”
“I do not know.”
Beebee’s eyes were downcast now. She was petting and smoothing my head, Warlock.
“I shall die if you do not come sometimes to see me.”
“I shall send Miss Morgan, she is English.”
“I will die if you do not accompany her.”
“Then you must live. Oh, I would not have you die on any account. Now, be still. See, I have a little book of English poems. This is ‘The Lady of the Lake.’ I will read to you.”