The victim collapsed in a heap on the sward, reddening the grass with his blood.
Armstrong was no stranger to the rough art of the leech. He undid the doublet and flung it open; tore away the waistcoat and shirt, disclosing an ebbing gash.
“Well pierced,” he muttered. “An inch to the right would have done the job. The poor chap parried, but not enough; the onslaught was too fierce and sudden. The old man’s intention was good, but the deflexion marred the thrust.”
He staunched the wound with the torn shirt, and tied a sash tightly round the body. Taking a leathern flask from his pouch, he forced some fluid between the grey lips, and Wentworth, with a long sigh, opened his eyes.
“It’s nothing to boast of,” said Armstrong carelessly. “I’ve ridden twenty miles worse mangled. Can you sit your horse if I put you on him?”
“Oh God! oh God!” moaned the youth, near to weeping. “Fool that I was to risk all for the chance of a word.”
“Tut, there’s no risk. You’ll be right as Edinburgh in three weeks.”
“Three weeks. Oh, my God! Would he had killed me outright!”
“What is troubling you? Anything in which I can help? I see you are no coward, and it is not alone the wound that hurts. Is it this Oxford journey?”
The prone invalid made no reply, but, groaning, turned his face to the turf.