The sun rose higher, and the heat of the day set in. Mistress Percy's interest in forest bloom and creature flagged. Instead of laughter, we had sighs at the length of way; the vines slid from her lap, and she took the faded flowers from her head and cast them aside. She talked no more, and by and by I felt her head droop against my shoulder.
“Madam is asleep,” said Diccon's voice behind me.
“Ay,” I answered. “She'll find a jack of mail but a hard pillow. And look to her that she does not fall.”
“I had best walk beside you, then,” he said.
I nodded, and he dismounted, and throwing the mare's bridle over his arm strode on beside us, with his hand upon the frame of the pillion. Ten minutes passed, the last five of which I rode with my face over my shoulder. “Diccon!” I cried at last, sharply.
He came to his senses with a start. “Ay, sir?” he questioned, his face dark red.
“Suppose you look at me for a change,” I said. “How long since Dale came in, Diccon?”
“Ten years, sir.”
“Before we enter Jamestown we'll pass through a certain field and beneath a certain tree. Do you remember what happened there, some years ago?”
“I am not like to forget, sir. You saved me from the wheel.”