There Lionel dropped to the chair that Sir Oliver had lately occupied.
"What is your hurt, lad?
Has it gone deep ?" he asked, in terror almost.
"'Tis naught--a flesh wound; but I have lost a mort of blood.

I thought I should have been drained or ever I got me home." With fearful speed Sir Oliver drew his dagger and ripped away doublet, vest, and shirt, laying bare the lad's white flesh.

A moment's examination, and he breathed more freely.
"Art a very babe, Lal," he cried in his relief.

"To ride without thought to stanch so simple a wound, and so lose all this blood--bad Tressilian blood though it be." He laughed in the immensity of his reaction from that momentary terror.

"Stay thou there whilst I call Nick to help us dress this scratch." "No, no!" There was note of sudden fear in the lad's voice, and his hand clutched at his brother's sleeve.