[CHAPTER XXIII]
THE ADVENTURE AT THE RUINED MILL
IN his tent, in terrible suspense, the young knight, Raymond Revyngton, lay helpless, wondering how went the fight. In due course, through the opening of his tent, he saw a stream of wounded men returning, singly or in small parties, some with rough bandages round their limbs or their heads.
At length came one whom he knew—an archer of the Portchester company.
"Stephen! Stephen!" called Raymond, as loudly as he could.
In obedience to the knight's cry, the man entered the tent, nursing the maimed fingers of his right hand with his left, while the blood poured freely from the stumps and trickled in a crimson stream down his arm, soaking his sleeve.
Deftly and quickly, notwithstanding his weakness, Raymond bound the wounded hand, and poured out a cup of wine for the almost fainting archer. The draught revived him, and the colour began to steal back into his ashy-grey face.
"How goes the battle?" asked Raymond anxiously.
"'Tis not a battle, Sir Raymond, but a slight passage of arms, though I perceive that as a bowman my work is done. The French King hath tried to relieve the town, but my Lord Chandos and seven thousand of our men have withstood him amid the sand-hills and marshes. Save for a few hand-to-hand blows, the French never made a stand, and already they are in full flight."
"Dost feel well enough to walk?" the young knight asked, after a long pause.
"Yea, Sir Raymond."