“Don’t wager your birthright on that; you’d lose even the mess of pottage.”
Under the relief the dressing of his wound afforded, Richard fell asleep, and his dreams must have been comforting, for on his face was a smile of happiness, and the words he murmured made the corporal of the guard laugh to himself as he trod to and fro before the open tent.
“Have you a favourite dog named Joscelyn?” he asked teasingly, when he roused Richard for supper.
“No.”
“A horse, then?”
Richard looked at him questioningly, half-inclined to be angry.
“You have been talking in your sleep.”
“Joscelyn is not a dog nor a horse; she is my sweetheart.”
“Mine’s named Margie.”
There was a moment of silence during which the two young fellows felt almost akin with friendly sympathy. They longed to shake hands and tell each other their love tales.