“What was the matter with me then, Yva?”

“All was the matter.  First, the weapon which that youth threw—­ he was the son of the sorcerer whom my father destroyed—­crushed in the bone of your head.  He is dead for his crime and may he be accursed for ever,” she added in the only outbreak of rage and vindictiveness in which I ever saw her indulge.

“One must make excuses for him; his father had been killed,” I said.

“Yes, that is what Bastin tells me, and it is true.  Still, for that young man I can make no excuse; it was cowardly and wicked.  Well, Bickley performed what he calls operation, and the Lord Oro, he came up from his house and helped him, because Bastin is no good in such things.  Then he can only turn away his head and pray.  I, too, helped, holding hot water and linen and jar of the stuff that made you feel like nothing, although the sight made me feel more sick than anything since I saw one I loved killed, oh, long, long ago.”

“Was the operation successful?” I asked, for I did not dare to begin to thank her.

“Yes, that clever man, Bickley, lifted the bone which had been crushed in.  Only then something broke in your head and you began to bleed here,” and she touched what I believe is called the temporal artery.  “The vein had been crushed by the blow, and gave way.  Bickley worked and worked, and just in time he tied it up before you died.  Oh! then I felt as though I loved Bickley, though afterwards Bastin said that I ought to have loved him, since it was not Bickley who stopped the bleeding, but his prayer.”

“Perhaps it was both,” I suggested.

“Perhaps, Humphrey, at least you were saved.  Then came another trouble.  You took fever.  Bickley said that it was because a certain gnat had bitten you when you went down to the ship, and my father, the Lord Oro, told me that this was right.  At the least you grew very weak and lost your mind, and it seemed as though you must die.  Then, Humphrey, I went to the Lord Oro and kneeled before him and prayed for your life, for I knew that he could cure you if he would, though Bickley’s skill was at an end.

“‘Daughter,’ he said to me, ’not once but again and again you have set up your will against mine in the past.  Why then should I trouble myself to grant this desire of yours in the present, and save a man who is nothing to me?’

“I rose to my feet and answered, ’I do not know, my Father, yet I am certain that for your own sake it will be well to do so.  I am sure that of everything even you must give an account at last, great though you be, and who knows, perhaps one life which you have saved may turn the balance in your favour.’

“‘Surely the priest Bastin has been talking to you,’ he said.

“‘He has,’ I answered, ’and not he alone.  Many voices have been talking to me.’”

“What did you mean by that?” I asked.

“It matters nothing what I meant, Humphrey.  Be still and listen to my story.  My father thought a while and answered: