"Water!" he murmured feebly. So I reached the water and setting my arm 'neath his neck (and despite my fetters) lifted him as gently as I might and held the jar to his cracked lips. When he had drank what he would I made a rough pillow for his head and rent strips from my shirt for bandages, and finding my pitcher full-charged with wine, mixed some with water and betook me to bathing his divers hurts (though greatly hampered by the chain of my fetters) and found him very patient to endure my awkward handling, in the midst of which, meeting my eye, he smiled faintly:
"Martin Conisby," he whispered. "Am I not—your—enemy?"
"Howbeit you endured!" quoth I.
"Thanks be to God!" said he humbly. "And is it for this. You will cherish thus—and comfort one—hath wronged you and yours—so bitterly?"
But at this I grew surly and having made an end of my rough surgery, I went and cast myself upon my bed of straw and, lying there, watching the sunbeam creep upon the wall, I fell to pondering this problem, viz: How came I thus striving to soothe the woes of this man I had hunted all these years to his destruction; why must I pity his hurts and compassionate his weakness—why?
And as I sat, my fists clenched, scowling at the sun-ray, it verily seemed as he had read these my thoughts.
"Martin Conisby," said he, his voice grown stronger. "Oh, Martin, think it not shame to pity thine enemy; to cherish them that despitefully use you; this is Godlike. I was a proud man and merciless but I have learned much by sufferings, and for the wrongs I did you—bitterly have I repented. So would I humbly sue forgiveness of you since I am to die so soon—"
"To die?"
"Aye, Martin, at the next auto-da-fé—by the fire—"
"The fire!" said I, clenching my fists.