Yet I think the cry was less from pain than to see
the marring of her shining breastplate; and the tears started to
her eyes. Never before had this suffered hurt; the sight of the
envious rent hurt her, I trow, as much as did the smart of her
wound.
The surgeon came hurrying up, and dressed the wound with a pledget
of linen steeped in oil; and the Maid lay very white and still,
almost like one dying or dead, so that we all held our breath in
fear. In sooth, the faintness was deathlike for awhile, and she did
beckon to her priest to come close to her and receive her
confession, whilst we formed round her in a circle, keeping off all
idle gazers, and standing facing away from her, with bent,
uncovered heads.
Was it possible that her Lord was about to take her from us, her
task yet unfulfilled? It was hard to believe it, and yet we could
not but fear; wherefore our hearts were heavy within us during that
long hour which followed.
And the battle? It was raging still, but the heart of it seemed to
be lacking.
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