"Then—wherefore?"
"O trouble not for thing so small, a woman's tears come easily, they say."
"Not yours, Joan. Yet you wept—"
"Your wound bleeds afresh, lie you there and stir not till I bring water to bathe it." And away she hastes and I, burning in a fever of doubt and questioning, must needs lie there and watch her bring the turtle-shell to fill it at the little rill that bubbled in that rocky cleft as I have described before. While this was a-doing I stared up at the pimento tree, and bethinking me of Black Bartlemy and the poor Spanish lady and of my hateful dream, I felt sudden great shame, for here had I crushed my lady in arms as cruel well-nigh as his. This put me to such remorse that I might not lie still and strove to rise up, yet got no further than my knees; and 'twas thus she found me. And now when I would have sued her forgiveness for my roughness she soothed me with gentle words (though what she spake I knew not) and gave me to drink, and so fell to cherishing my hurt until, my strength coming back somewhat, I got to my feet and suffered her to bring me where she would, speaking no word, since in my fevered brain I was asking myself this question, viz.,
"Why must she weep?"
Now whether the Indian's knife was poisoned or no I cannot say, but for two days I lay direly sick and scarce able to crawl, conscious only of the soothing tones of her voice and touch of her hands. But upon the third day, opening my eyes I found myself greatly better though marvellous weak. And as I stirred she was beside me on her knees.
"Drink this, Martin!" says she. And I obeying, found it was excellent broth. And when I had drunk all I closed my eyes mighty content, and so lay a while.
"My Lady Joan," says I at last, "wherefore did you weep?"
"O Martin!" she sighed, "'Twas because that morning I had sought so long and found so little to give you and you so sick!" Here was silence a while.
"But whence cometh the broth?" quoth I at last.