"Aye, I do so!"
"And how I plagued you--"
"Nay, why remember all this, Joanna?"
"It helpeth me to endure this pain!"
When I had anointed and bound up her wound she must needs praise my skill and vow she was herself again and would be up and about, whereat Resolution reached down to aid her to rise, but this I would by no means suffer, telling her that she must rest and sleep the fever from her blood. At this she scowled, then all of a sudden laughed.
"Why, then, you shall stay and talk with me!"
"Rather shall Resolution mix you a sleeping draught."
"Verily, brother, two have I mixed, but she'll not take 'em!"
"Why, then, being two to one, we must force her to drink," said I.
"Force her to drink, comrade? Force Joannas--God's light--!"
"Mix the potion, man, or teach me!" So in the end Resolution did as I bade; then kneeling beside Joanna, I raised her upon my arm and set the pannikin to her lips, whereupon, though she frowned, she presently drank it off meekly enough, to Resolution's no small wonder and her own, it seemed.
"I grow marvellous obedient!" said she. "And 'tis hateful stuff!"
"Now sleep," quoth I. "'Tis life to you--"
"Wouldst have me live, to plague you again, mayhap?" she questioned.
"This is as God wills!"
"Nay, this is as you will, Martino. Wouldst have me live, indeed?"
Now seeing how she hung upon my answer, beholding the wistful pleading of her look, I nodded.
"Aye, I would indeed!" said I.
"Why, then I will, Martino, I will!" And smiling, she composed herself to slumber and smiling, she presently fell asleep, whereupon Resolution crept stealthily out of the little cave and I after him. Being outside, he turned and suddenly caught and wrung my hand.
"Friend," said he, his grim features relaxing to unwonted smile. "Brother, you are a man--the only man could ha' done it. I thought Death had her sure last night, she all of a fever and crying out for Death to take her."
"She'll do better out in the air!" said I, glancing about.
"The air, comrade?"
"Aye, I must contrive her a shelter of sorts to her comfort where she may sleep. 'Neath yonder tree should serve--"
"She'll live, Martino, she'll live and all by reason o' her love for you--the promise you made her--"
"I made no promise, man!"
"Why, 'twas good as promise, comrade."
"How so?"
"'Wouldst ha' me live,' says she, 'to plague you again,' says she. 'Aye, that would I indeed,' says you! And what's that but a promise, Martin?"