“You brought me?”
“Ay, my lord.”
“You found me wounded,” he puzzled, drawing his haughty brows together, “and you brought me here to your house? How?”
“I carried you,” said Pomona.
“You carried me!”
The statement was so amazing and Lord Blantyre’s wits were still so weakened that he turned giddy and was fain to close his eyes and allow the old vagueness to cradle him again for a few minutes.
Pomona prayed that he might be sleeping, but as she was stealthily rising from his bedside he opened his eyes and held her with them.
“You carried me, you brought me to your own house? Why?”
“I wanted to nurse you,” said poor Pomona.
She knew no artifice whereby she could answer, yet conceal the truth. But it was as if her heart were being torn from her bit by bit.