"And yet, by God's grace, thy valour saved us."
"Saved you, Father?"
"Yea, my son. Saved the priory of the blessed Saints Mary and Edward; for, had ye not been there to bar the way, the Frenchmen would of a certainty have ravaged our holy retreat."
"This knowledge is beyond my understanding, yet, the saints be praised, I was but an instrument to that end."
"The gratitude of us all is due to you, my son, and if in any way we can render thee a service, do but ask it. Thou'rt weary; return to thy friends and rest well."
The master-bowman bent his head for the Abbot's blessing, then he turned and hobbled slowly back to join his comrades.
Great was the astonishment and delight of the monks, on washing the thick cake of dried blood, slime, and soot from the face of their youngest patient, to find that it was none other than their late novice, Raymond, whose wound—a deep cut in his left shoulder—had been skilfully dressed by the monks, to whom surgery was a special feature of their work. He was now sleeping peacefully, a draught of cooling medicine having completely taken away all symptoms of fever.
Walter Bevis, his leg swathed in bandages, was lying on a pallet, his eyes rolling and his hands tightly clenched as he strove to suppress a groan. Already he was in a state of semi-delirium, and in spite of the constant attention of two of the monks, he strove at intervals to rise from his couch and fly at some imaginary foe.
As for the rest, with the exception of Will Lightfoot, who was busily devouring a platter of soup, they all were sleeping off the effects of a terrible mental strain. Submitting himself to the hands of two of the brethren, Redward had his injuries dressed, and was cleansed from the effects of the fire and battle; then, staggering to a couch, he lay down and was soon lost in dreamless sleep.
The sun was high in the heavens ere Buckland awoke, feeling vastly refreshed and filled with renewed energy. His first inquiry was for his son and his comrades, then for the latest tidings of the raiders.