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"My Lady Joan," said I at last, "for your pure self I can have nought to forgive--I--that am all unworthy to touch the latchet of your shoeRise, I pray"

"And for--my father?" she whispered, "Alas, my poor, miserable father--"

"Speak not of him!" I cried "Needs must there be hate and enmity betwixt us until the end" So was silence awhile nor did I look up, dreading to see her grief

"Your face is cut, Martin!" said she at last, very softly, "Suffer that I bathe it" Now turning in a up attears: "Wilt suffer me to bathe it, Martin?" says she, her voice unshaken by any sob I shookshe crossed to the door and caht this for the purpose," says she

"Nay, indeed, I--I ah--"

"Then I will rily

"Yes!" says she patiently, but setting dimpled chin at me

"And wherefore,she knelt close besidemy bruised face as she would (and I helpless to stay her) yet entle touch of her soft hands and the tender pity in her tear-wet eyes "Martin," says she, "as I do thus cherish your hurts, you shall one day, mayhap, cherish your enemy's--"

"Never!" says I "You can know uess, Martin You think it strange belike and unmaidenly in me that I should seek you thus, that your name should come so readily to my lip? But I have re years since, who found a littlein a wood, very woeful and frightened and forlorn And this boy see (he was just eleven, he said) and was armed with a bow and arrows 'to shoot outlaws' And yet he was very gentle and kindly, laying by his weapons the better to coht her to a cave he called his 'castle' and showed her a real sword he kept hidden there (albeit a very rusty one) and said he would be her knight, to do great things for her soht her safely home; and he told her his name was Martin and she said hers was Damaris--"