“Charmian,” I cried, “forgive me—­you will, you must!” and, kneeling before her, I strove to catch her gown, and kiss its hem, but she drew it close about her, and, turning, fled from me through the shadows.

Heedless of all else but that she was leaving me, I stumbled to my feet and followed.  The trees seemed to beset me as I ran, and bushes to reach out arms to stay me, but I burst from them, running wildly, blunderingly, for she was going—­Charmian was leaving me.  And so, spent and panting, I reached the cottage, and met Charmian at the door.  She was clad in the long cloak she had worn when she came, and the hood was drawn close about her face.

I stood panting in the doorway, barring her exit.

“Let me pass, Peter.”

“By God—­no!” I cried, and, entering, closed the door, and leaned my back against it.

And, after we had stood thus awhile, each looking upon the other, I reached out my hands to her, and my hands were torn and bloody.

“Don’t go, Charmian,” I mumbled, “don’t go!  Oh, Charmian—­I’m hurt—­I didn’t want you to know, but you mustn’t leave me—­I am not—­well; it is my head, I think.  I met Black George, and he was too strong for me.  I’m deaf, Charmian, and half blinded—­oh, don’t leave me—­I’m afraid, Charmian!” Her figure grew more blurred and indistinct, and I sank down upon my knees; but in the dimness I reached out and found her hands, and clasped them, and bowed my aching head upon them, and remained thus a great while, as it seemed to me.

And presently, through the mist, her voice reached me.

“Oh, Peter!  I will not leave you—­lean on me there—­there!” And, little by little, those strong, gentle hands drew me up once more to light and life.  And so she got me to a chair, and brought cool water, and washed the blood and sweat from me, as she had once before, only now my hurts were deeper, for my head grew beyond my strength to support, and hung upon my breast, and my brain throbbed with fire, and the mist was ever before my eyes.

“Are you in much pain, Peter?”

“My head—­only my head, Charmian—­there is a bell ringing there, no—­it is a hammer, beating.”  And indeed I remembered little for a while, save the touch of her hands and the soothing murmur of her voice, until I found she was kneeling beside me, feeding me with broth from a spoon.  Wherefore I presently took the basin from her and emptied it at a gulp, and, finding myself greatly revived thereby, made some shift to eat of the supper she set before me.

So she presently came and sat beside me and ate also, watching me at each morsel.

“Your poor hands!” said she, and, looking down at them, I saw that my knuckles were torn and broken, and the fingers much swelled.  “And yet,” said Charmian, “except for the cut in your head, you are quite unmarked, Peter.”

“He fought mostly for the body,” I answered, “and I managed to keep my face out of the way; but he caught me twice—­once upon the chin, lightly, and once up behind the ear, heavily; had his fist landed fairly I don’t think even you could have brought me back from those loathly depths, Charmian.”