The Abbot got to his feet, faced him, a big man astounded.
“Truly,” he said on a tone conciliatory, “I meant the boy no ill. Seeing him lying there fainting and alone, I but sought to restore him to consciousness.”
“I crave your pardon,” said Peregrine quickly, very apologetic, “I thought ’twas another knelt beside him: one with whose company we may very well dispense.” He looked now ruefully at his leaf. “And like a fool I’ve spilled the water,” he remarked.
“You fetched it from the stream yonder,” said the Abbot, knowing Thorn Wood well, every inch on it. “Methinks ’twere simpler matter to carry the child to the stream than bring the stream to the child. In the first case we can be more lavish with our restorative.”
Peregrine laughed. “You speak very truly,” quoth he.
The Abbot picked up the fainting boy from the ground, lifting him as though he lifted a mere featherweight, and straightway made off in strides among the trees, Peregrine following in his wake.
Down by the water,—a narrow silver stream flowing among ferns and mosses,—they laved the boy’s temples and wrists, got drops between his lips. Anon he came to himself, sat up somewhat feebly.
“I will come on the instant,” he cried faintly, his mind back at the place he had left.
“Tut, tut,” spoke Peregrine soothingly, “never trouble yourself, child. There’s no more coming and going for you at that scoundrel’s bidding.”
“Ah, I forgot,” cried the boy fetching a deep breath of relief. “Who else is here?” he asked on a sudden.