He stumbled into the banqueting hall like a man into a tavern.
"Wine, wine, for the love of God."
A slim figure in green came out from the oriel, and a pair of dark eyes quivered over the man's grey face and blood-stained armour. The girl's hands went out to him, and she seemed like a child roused in the night from the influence of some evil dream.
"You are wounded."
She took him by the arm and shoulder, and was able to force him into a chair, so limp, so impotent, was he for the moment. His face had the uncanny pallor of one who was about to faint; his eyes stared at her in a dazed and wistful way.
"My God, you are not going to die!"
He shook his head, smiled weakly, and groped for her hand. She broke away, brought wine, and began to trickle it between his lips. Several of his knights came in, and looked on awkwardly from the doorway at the girl leaning over the man's chair, with her arm under his head. Yeoland caught sight of them, coloured and called them forward.
The man's faintness had passed. He saw Modred and beckoned him to his chair.
"Take her away," in a whisper.
Yeoland heard the words, started round, and clung to his hand. There was a strange look upon her face. Flavian spoke slowly to her.