But he realized now that the trip to the retreat had been hard on her. Had he attended to her immediately, in the village, he could have done her a great deal of good. But he had, had to use a stopgap measure, and then carry her, and she had bounced on his back. Her wound had been aggravated, and the blood had flowed despite the control lent by her mesmerized state. Now she was in serious trouble. Her breathing was labored, for only one lung was functioning adequately.

He worked desperately, but there was much he could not do. His father had greater expertise-but his father was dead. Parry didn't know how to make up for the extensive internal bleeding he realized had occurred. He had no substitute for blood! He would have given her his own, but knew that wouldn't work; the humors of one person inevitably fought those of another, and made the transfusion worse than none at all. She had to survive on her own blood-and she no longer had enough.

Perhaps if he gave her plenty of nourishing liquid to drink it would restore the blood. But to do that, he would have to wake her. He didn't like that, because she would then become aware of her pain; yet there seemed to be no choice.

He prepared broth, thick with the needs of life. He set a warm bowl of it beside her. Then he roused her with a word. "Wake," he said. "Wake, Jolie."

Her eyelids flickered. "Parry," she breathed-and winced.

"You were wounded," he said quickly. "A sword thrust. You have lost blood. But I have you safe, and if you will drink this good broth-"

Slowly, she shook her head. "Parry, I hurt," she gasped. "Please let me die."

He was horrified. "Jolie, I'll never let you die!"

"It is no use," she whispered with half a breath. "I love you, but I cannot-cannot survive. The pain is ter-terrible. Kiss me and let me die."

It was worse than he had supposed. She would never have yielded to mere pain; she was a stout girl at heart.

She knew her body, and knew it could not be saved.

He had to honor her last request.

He leaned forward and kissed her with infinite tenderness. He felt her response. Then she sighed and sank into unconsciousness.

A hooded figure stepped through the wall.

Parry started up, astonished and dismayed. He had not heard the soldiers coming!

But this was no soldier. It was a man in a voluminous black cloak, with a deep cowl that hid his face in shadow. He leaned over Jolie, one hand reaching for her.

"Stop!" Parry cried, outraged in his grief. "She is my love and my wife! I will suffer no stranger to touch her in her last moment!"

The figure turned to him as if in surprise.

The surprise was mutual. Now Parry discerned the face--and it was a fleshless skull.