"The woodward of Avalcomb!"
"The hand of the Lord hath fallen!"
After a moment the younger woman said in a trembling voice, "The whisper in my
heart spoke truly. Dearest sister, put your arm under here, and we will get
him to his feet and bring him in, and he will tell us what has happened. See!
he is shaking off his swoon. After he has swallowed some of your wine, he will
be able to speak and tell us."
It was muscle-breaking work for women's backs, for though he tried
instinctively to obey their directions, the man was scarcely conscious; his
arms were like lead yokes upon his supporters' shoulders. Just within the gate
their strength gave out, and they were forced to put him down among the spicy
herbs. There, as one was pulling off her threadbare cloak to make him a
pillow, and the other was starting after her cordial, he opened his eyes.
"Master!" he muttered. "Master? Have they gone?"
In an instant Sister Wynfreda was on her knees beside him. "Is it the English
you mean? Did they beset the castle?"
Slowly the man's clouded eyes cleared. "The Sisters--" he murmured. "I had the
intention--to get to you--but I fell--" His words died away in a whisper, and
his eyelids drooped. Sister Sexberga turned again to seek her restorative.
Sister Wynfreda leaned over and shook him.
"Answer me, first. Where is your master? And young Fridtjof? And your
mistress?"
He shrank from her touch with a gasp of pain.
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