d for her to cut the cord.

"Merciful Mother!" she exclaimed, and severed it with a touch of her
bodkin.

The blood flooded fiercely forward and the wound began to bleed afresh.

"The bandage needs adjusting--come," and slipping from saddle she
tossed the rein to the dog and went over to the fallen tree. "Sit
down," she ordered.

With a smile De Lacy obeyed; as yet she did not seem to note his
silence. And it was very pleasant indeed--the touch of her slim
fingers on his bare arm--the perfume of her hair as she bent over the
work--the quick upward glance at times of her grey eyes questioning if
she hurt him. He was sorry now there were not a dozen wounds for her
to dress.

"There, that will suffice until you get proper attendance," she said,
tying the last knot and tucking under the ends.

He took her hand and bowing would have kissed it; but she drew it away
sharply and turned to her horse. Then she stopped and looked at him in
sudden recollection.

"Parbleu, man, where is your tongue?" she demanded. "You had one last
night."

Where she had seen him he did not know; he had not seen her--and it
only tangled the matter the more, for now she would know he was not
dumb. But how to explain?

He smiled and bowed.

"That is the sixth time I have got a bow when a word was due," she
said. "There may be a language of genuflections, but I do not know it."

He bowed again.

"Seven," she counted; "the perfect number--stop with it."

He put his hand to his lips and shook his head in negation--then
pointed to the sun and the tree, and shook his head again--then once
more to the sun and slowly upward to the top of the tree, and nodded in
affirmation.

She watched him with a puzzled frown.

"Are you trying to tell me why you do not speak?" she asked.

He nodded eagerly.

"Tell me again" . . . and she studied his motions carefully. . . "The
sun and the tree--and the sun and the tree again . . . is that your
meaning? . . . Ah! . . . the _top_ of the tree . . . I think I am
beginning to understand. . . . Where is your doublet?"

De Lacy pointed into the forest.

"And your bonnet? . . . with your doublet? . . . and your dagger? . . .
gone with the others? . . . you mean your ring? and it went with them,
too? . . . yes, yes--I see now--outlaws, and your wound got in the
struggle." . . . She turned toward the tree. . . "Ah! I have it:--you
are paroled to silence until the sun has risen above the highes