“A pretty mess,” he mused—­“a stranger in England—­my first day at Windsor and the jest of the castle. . .  Stripped like a jowly tradesman . . . taken like a cooing babe . . . purseless . . . daggerless . . . bonnetless . . . doubletless—­aye, naked, but for an outlaw’s generosity . . . cut by my own weapon”—­he held up his hand and looked at the abraded knuckles—­“and that is all the credit I have to show—­the mark of a caitiff’s chin. . .  Methinks I am fit only for the company of children.”

He glanced again at the sun—­it seemed not to have moved at all—­then sat in moody silence; the wound was smarting now, and he frowned at it every time it gave an extra twinge. . .  Would the sun never move? . . .  He got up and paced back and forth, his eyes on the oak at every turn—­truly that tree was growing higher every minute—­or the sun was sinking. . .  Not that he was in haste to return to Windsor. . .  There would be a fine tale to tell there—­no need to speed to it—­it would speed to him quite soon enough. . . .  But to get away from the accursed place—­anywhere . . . back to Windsor even . . . what if some one found him here in this plight—­and he not allowed to speak—­unable to explain—­dumb as that oak. . .  Would the sun never move!  The wound was stinging sharply, and the arm above the cord was turning black and swelling fast—­the pressure must come off.  He felt for his dagger; then flung out an imprecation, and tried to tear the cord asunder with his teeth.  It was quite futile; it was sunk now so deep in the flesh he could not seize it—­and the knots were drawn too tight to loose. . .  Would the sun never move!

He fell to searching for a stone—­a small one with an edge that could reach in and rasp the deer-hide cord apart—­but vainly; though he tried many, only to leave his arm torn and bleeding. . .  Yet at last the sun had moved—­it was up among the thinner branches.

Of a sudden, back in the forest rose the deep bay of a mastiff . . . and presently again—­and nearer . . . and a third time—­and still nearer . . . and then down the path came the great tawny dog, tail arched forward, head up—­and behind him a bay horse, a woman in the saddle.

“Down, Rollo, down!” she cried, as the mastiff sprang ahead. . .  “Beside me, sir!” and the dog whirled instantly and obeyed.

De Lacy bethought himself of his cloak, and hurrying to where it lay he tried to fling it around his shoulders, but with only one hand and his haste he managed badly and it slipped off and fell to the ground.  As he seized it again the horse halted behind him.

“You are wounded, sir,” she said; “permit me to aid you.”

He turned slowly, bowing as he did so—­he dared not speak—­then glanced up, and almost spoke in sheer amazement, as he beheld the slender figure in green velvet—­the sweet, bow-shaped mouth, the high-bred, sensitive nose, the rounded chin, the tiny ear, the soft, deep grey eyes, and, crowning all, the great rolls of the auburn hair that sunbeams spin to gold.