“No, Nance; I came to save you. That was my only thought.”
“They are asking for you indoors. I do not understand—you are wounded——”
“In your service—yes. They were right, after all—they always said I’d more luck than I deserved.”
She was free now of the bewilderment of this night attack, the sharp battle in the hall, quick and confused in the doing. The moonlight showed her the face of a man in obvious pain, a man fighting for every word that crossed his lips; and yet he was smiling, and the soul of him was gay.
“I’ll bring help,” she said, turning toward the house.
“No; you’ve brought help. Nance, I’ll not keep you long. There was a day—a day when we met up the moor, and I was your liar, Nance—from heel to crown I was your liar—and God knows the shame you put on me.”
Nance, scarce heeding what she did, took a kerchief, stained with gunpowder, from the pocket of the riding-coat she had worn, day in, day out, since the siege began.
“I keep my promise, Will.”
Even yet, though Nance was kneeling in the snow beside him and he heard the pity in her voice, Will could not free himself from some remembrance of that bygone meeting. “As a flag of truce?” he asked sharply.
“As a badge of honour. You are free to wear it.”