He had but to recall the mood in which he himself had ridden after Peter Godolphin; he had but to remember, that only the consideration of Rosamund--only, indeed, the consideration of his future--had set a curb upon his own bloodthirsty humour.
When he had washed the wound he fetched some table linen from a press and ripped it into strips with his dagger; he threaded out one of these and made a preliminary crisscross of the threads across the lips of the wound--for the blade had gone right through the muscles of the breast, grazing the ribs; these threads would help the formation of a clot.
Then with the infinite skill and cunning acquired in the course of his rovings he proceeded to the bandaging.
That done, he opened the window and flung out the blood-tinted water.
The cloths with which he had mopped the wound and all other similar evidences of the treatment he cast upon the fire.

He must remove all traces even from the eyes of Nicholas.

He had the most implicit trust in the old servant's fidelity.

But the matter was too grave to permit of the slightest risk.

He realized fully the justice of Lionel's fears that however fair the fight might have been, a thing done thus in secret must be accounted murder by the law.
Bidding Lionel wrap himself in his cloak, Sir Oliver unbarred the door, and went upstairs in quest of a fresh shirt and doublet for his brother.
On the landing he met Nicholas descending.