"That poor doubting rogue!" he laughed. But he sobered himself. "I do
ill to laugh, God knows! The man must be dead by now, and all his
doubts with him. I must go find him. But I must eat some of his bread
and olives first."
Once more he got on all fours, and this time he crawled to the stop of
the stairway. Clinging to the lintel and hoisting himself by degrees,
he at last stood fairly on his feet--but with a spinning head, and a
sickness as unto death. He tottered and flickered; but he stuck to his
door-post.
"Bread and olives!" he cried. "I am to die, it seems, but by the Lord
I will eat first."
He made a rush for it, gained so the great hall, dizzied through it
somehow, and out into the corridor. He flung himself at the stone
stairs with the desperation of his last agony, half crawled, half
swarmed up to the top (dragging his legs after him at the end, like a
hare shot in the back), and finished his course to Spiridion's chamber
on hands and knees. He had probably never in his life before worked so
hard for a breakfast. He was dripping with sweat, shaking like
gossamer; but his fever had left him. Bread and a bottle of wine did
wonders for him. He felt very drunk when he had done, and was
conscious that pot-valiancy only gave him the heart to tear off his
clothes. A flask of sweet oil from Spiridion's shelf helped him here.
Next he probed the rents. He found a deepish wound in the groin, a
sword-cut in the fleshy part of his left arm; then there was his head!
He assured himself that the skull was whole.
"I never respected my ancestors before," he cried. "Such a headpiece
is worthy of a Crusader."
He kindled a fire, heated water, washed out his hurts, oiled them and
bound them up with one of Spiridion's bed-sheets.
"Now," he reflected, "by rights I should go and hunt for my poor host.
But I am still drunk unfortunately. Let me consider. Spiridion must
pass for a man. If he is dead he will wait for me. If he is not dead
he is no worse off than I am. Good. I will sleep." And he slept round
the clock.
Next morning when he awoke he was stiff and sore, but himself. He
finished the bread, drank another bottle of wine, and looked about for
his armour. It was not there. Instead, the white wicket-gates gleamed
at him from a black shield, white plumes from a black headpiece, and
the rest of a concatenation.