"Why?"
"You were hurt; I found you bleeding and senseless."
"Bleeding!" And out came a dainty lace handkerchief on the instant.
"There," said Barnabas, "above your eyebrow," and he indicated a very small trickle of blood upon the snow of her temple.
"And you—found me, sir?"
"Beneath the riven oak in the Broad Glade—over yonder."
"That is a great way from here, sir!"
"You are not—heavy!" Barnabas explained, a little clumsily perhaps, for she fell silent at this, and stooped her head the better to dab tenderly at the cut above her eyebrow; also the color deepened in her cheeks.
"Madam," said Barnabas, "that is the wrong eyebrow."
"Then why don't you tell me where I'm hurt?" she sighed. For answer, after a moment's hesitation, Barnabas reached out and taking her hand, handkerchief and all, laid it very gently upon the cut, though to be sure it was a very poor thing, as cuts go, after all.
"There," said he again, "though indeed it is very trifling."
"Indeed, sir, it pains atrociously!" she retorted, and to bear out her words showed him her handkerchief, upon whose snow was a tiny vivid stain.
"Then perhaps," ventured Barnabas, "perhaps I'd better bathe it with this!" and he held up his dripping handkerchief.
"Nay, sir, I thank you," she answered, "keep it for your own wounds—there is a cut upon your cheek."
"A cut!" repeated Barnabas—bethinking him of the gentleman's signet ring.
"Yes, a cut, sir," she repeated, and stole a glance at him under her long lashes; "pray did your horse run away also?"
Barnabas was silent again, this time because he knew not how to answer—therefore he began rubbing at his injured cheek while she watched him—and after a while spoke.
"Sir," said she, "that is the wrong cheek."
"Then, indeed, this must be very trifling also," said Barnabas, smiling.
"Does it pain you, sir?"
"Thank you—no."
"Yet it bleeds! You say it was not your horse, sir?" she inquired, wonderfully innocent of eye.
"No, it was not my horse."
"Why, then—pray, how did it happen?"
"Happen, madam?—why, I fancy I must have—scratched myself," returned Barnabas, beginning to wring out his neckerchief.
"Scratched yourself. Ah! of course!" said she, and was silent while
Barnabas continued to wring the water from his neckerchief.
"Pray," she inquired suddenly, "do you often scratch yourself—until you bleed?—'t is surely a most distressing habit." Now glancing up suddenly, Barnabas saw her eyes were wonderfully bright for all her solemn mouth, and suspicion grew upon him.—"Did she know? Had she seen?" he wondered.
"Nevertheless, sir—my thanks are due to you—"
"For what?" he inquired quickly.
"Why—for—for—"
"For bringing you here?" he suggested, beginning to wring out his neckerchief again.
"Yes; believe me I am more than grateful for—for—"
"For what, madam?" he inquired again, looking at her now.
"For—your—kindness, sir."
"Pray, how have I been kind?—you refused my neckerchief."
Surely he was rather an unpleasant person after all, she thought, with his persistently direct eyes, and his absurdly blunt mode of questioning—and she detested answering questions.
"Sir," said she, with her dimpled chin a little higher than usual, "it is a great pity you troubled yourself about me, or spoilt your neckerchief with water."
"I thought you were hurt, you see—"
"Oh, sir, I grieve to disappoint you," said she, and rose, and indeed she gained her feet with admirable grace and dignity notwithstanding her recent fall, and the hampering folds of her habit; and now Barnabas saw that she was taller than he had thought.
