A common and deadly peril binds very closely together those who have faced it and fought it hand in hand and shoulder to shoulder; and in those days of divided houses, broken lives, and general disruption of all ordinary routine in domestic existence, things that in other times would appear strange and unnatural were now taken as a matter of course.  It did not occur to Joan as in any way remarkable that she should remain in John’s house, nursing him with the help of Bridget, and playing a sister’s part until some of his own kith or kin returned.  He had been deserted by all of his own name.  She herself knew not whether she had any relatives living.  Circumstances had thrown her upon his hospitality, and she had looked upon him almost as a brother ever since the days of her childhood.

She knew that he was dying; there was that in his face which told as much all too well to those who had long been looking upon death.  To have left him at such a moment would have seemed far more strange and unnatural than to remain.  In those times of terror stranger things were done daily, no man thinking aught of it.

So she smiled as she heard John’s last words, trying to recall the day when she had first seen Raymond at Master Bernard’s house, when he had seemed to her little more than a boy, albeit a very knightly and chivalrous one.  Now her feelings towards him were far different:  not that she thought less of his knightliness and chivalry, but that she was half afraid to let her mind dwell too much upon him and her thoughts of him; for of late, since they had been toiling together in the hand-to-hand struggle against disease and death, she was conscious of a feeling toward him altogether new in her experience, and his face was seldom out of her mental vision.  The sound of his voice was ever in her ears; and she always knew, by some strange intuition, when he was near, whether she could see him or not.

She knew even as John spoke that he was approaching; and as the latch of the door clicked a soft wave of colour rose in her pale cheek, and she turned her head with a gesture that spoke a mute welcome.

“They tell me that thou art sick, good John,” said Raymond, coming forward into the bright circle of the firelight.

The dancing flames lit up that pale young face, worn and hollow with long watching and stress of work, and showed that Raymond had changed somewhat during those weeks of strange experience.  Some of the dreaminess had gone out of the eyes, to be replaced by a luminous steadfastness of expression which had always been there, but was now greatly intensified.  Pure, strong, and noble, the face was that of a man rather than a boy, and yet the bright, almost boyish, alertness and eagerness were still quickly apparent when he entered into conversation, and turned from one companion to another.  It was the same Raymond —­ yet with a difference; and both of his companions scanned him with some curiosity as he took his seat beside John’s couch and asked of his cousin’s welfare.