"Nay, nay," he said, "it is not so!" And I lifted my eyes and so looked into his that he could no longer doubt.
"Verily, Ned, it is I. And I had told the sooner," I said, "but that—but that—" and, my words then failing, I again dropped my gaze before his.
"Phil!" he cried. "Is it even my little friend Phil? 'But,' you say—but what?"
"But that I would not tell you—and could not—was ashamed, Ned, and did mightily desire to know had you forgot me." And here, laying my folded handkerchief to my wound inside my shirt, and fastening all close above it, I did see his face so lose color at thought of the hurt he had given me, that I laid my hand upon his, saying: "Be not vexed, sweet Ned, 't is but a scratch."
"I am right glad of it, Phil," he answered, "if it be so. But indeed you should not run about in this guise. How came you to be so dressed?"
"That story must wait," I replied merrily. "But 't is the first time, Ned, and shall be the last."
"And if you must needs be a man," he went on, "but for a day, you should cleave like a man to one side, and not be so greedy of strife as to draw sword on both. There will be trouble over this priest when he is taken, as he will be, by the guard without."
"Listen, Ned," said I. "That priest is my brother."
"What!" he cried. "Surely it is not Philip!"
"Philip it is," said I, "and no other, though I did not know him until he told me even now in this room. And also he did tell me, Ned, that he had no part in the assault upon His Highness."