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Doyle, Arthur Conan, Sir, 1859-1930

"Sir Nigel"


"By my hilt!" he cried with a sudden shout, every tooth in his
head gleaming with joy, "I thank the Virgin and all the saints for
this blessed sight! I had not dared to go back to Tilford had I
lost you. Three weeks have you lain there and babbled like a
babe, but now I see in your eyes that you are your own man again."
"I have indeed had some small hurt," said Nigel feebly; "but it is
shame and sorrow that I should lie here if there is work for my
hands. Whither go you, archer?"
"To tell the good Sir John that you are mending."
"Nay, bide with me a little longer, Aylward. I can call to mind
all that has passed. There was a bickering of small boats, was
there not, and I chanced upon a most worthy person and exchanged
handstrokes with him? He was my prisoner, was he not?"
"He was, fair sir."
"And where is he now?"
"Below in the castle."
A smile stole over Nigel's pale face. "I know what I will do with
him," said he.
"I pray you to rest, fair sir," said Aylward anxiously. "The
King's own leech saw you this morning, and he said that if the
bandage was torn from your head you would surely die."
"Nay, good archer, I will not move. But tell me what befell upon
the boat?"
"There is little to tell, fair sir. Had this Ferret not been his
own squire and taken so long a time to don his harness it is
likely that they would have had the better of us.


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