"God in Heaven! … Where Is Sir John?"
"Half a league further on."
"Tell the King I have gone thither," Aymer called over his shoulder as he raced away.
In a patch of moonlight, fifty feet or so in from the road, lay Sir John de Bury, his eyes closed, his face upturned, motionless—to all appearances a corpse. De Lacy sprang down and knelt beside him.
"He is not dead, my lord," said a soldier.
Aymer laid back the doublet and shirt, wet and heavy with blood that had come from a deep wound in the right breast, and was still oozing slowly. The heart was beating, but very faintly, and forcing the set jaws apart with his dagger, he poured a measure of cordial down Sir John's throat.
"May it please you, sir," said one of the men, "we have arranged a litter of boughs, and if you think it good we will bear him back to the castle."
"It can do him no harm," De Lacy answered… "How say you, Giles?"
"With even step it will not hurt him," the squire replied.
Lifting the old Knight carefully they placed him on the litter and Aymer wrapped his own cloak around him, then nodded to the soldiers to proceed.