Old Anchor, and many heroic things done that night by men and women and children. But a man, a goldsmith, entered farthest, endured longest, brought forth in his arms whom he had gone to seek, out of the heart of it. “Is she dead? No! Dead with the smoke, and fire has touched her arms and her breast and her sides. Who is she? The man’s sister. Where will he take her? He will carry her through the street to his house. Diccon Dawn, a goldsmith. He will nurse her there—oh, tenderly, tenderly.”
It was so.
He nursed here there, oh, tenderly, and she came back to life and to strength through much suffering.
“It hurts? I would that I could take that!”
“Oh, aye, it hurts sore! But I will keep it and bear it and see it change.”
“So much more I know about thee than I used to know! Thou hast courage.”
“So much more I know of thee. Thou hast strength, patience. If I moan with the pain, it helps me to utter it.”
“See thou, it is meant for us to be together.”