from the poor boy's eyes in his utter loneliness, as he clenched his
hand with powerless wrath, and regained his feet, to retrace, as
best he might, his way to where his widowed mother had found a
temporary shelter in a small religious house.

The sun grew hotter and hotter, Bertram's wound bled, though not
profusely, the smart grew upon him, his tongue was parched with
thirst, and though he kept resolutely on, his breath came panting,
his head grew dizzy, his eyes dim, his feet faltered, and at last,
just as he attained a wider and more trodden way, he dropped
insensible by the side of the path, his dry lips trying to utter the
cry, "Lord, have mercy on me!"


II. DE JURE


When Bertram de Maisonforte opened his eyes again cold waters were
on his face, wine was moistening his lips, the burning of his wound
was assuaged by cooling oil, while a bandage was being applied, and
he was supported on a breast and in arms, clad indeed in a hauberk,
but as tenderly kind as the full deep voice that spoke in English,
"He comes round. How now, my child?"

"Father," murmured Bertram, with dreamy senses.

"Better now; another sup from the flask, David," again said the kind
voice, and looking up, he became aware of the beautiful benignant
face, deep blue eyes, and long light locks of the man in early
middle age who had laid him on his knee, while a priest was binding