She could only hope he heard her, for he gave no sign.

He lay burning with fever both of body and spirit. His wounds did not heal, but remained raw and open, and he wasted away day by day, even minute by minute, until

216 THE SILVER SUN.

she could plainly see that no strength of body kept him alive. His eyes were open, bright and staring, but he saw only scenes of horror. He whispered his defiance, and sometimes cried out in agony. At such times the sweat stood out on his forehead and his every muscle strained, though she knew he had not bodily strength to raise his head.

Sometimes, at her father's bidding, she took a few hours' rest while Pelys or Rafe sat by the bedside in her stead. But her sleep was as troubled as Hal's waking nightmare, and when Pelys saw it did her no good he no longer insisted on it. From time to time, when her mind grew blank of things to say to Hal, she took the plinset and played the songs he loved the best; happy songs, songs of sweet sadness, love songs. As the haze of her tiredness and despair thickened, she said and sang what- ever came to mind, scarcely realizing anymore what passed her lips.

She sang, without thinking whether it would help or harm, one of the old jingles that had lately become proph- ecies of hope for the people of Isle. She had heard it from one of Ket's men in the Forest.

Bearing balm of Veran's flower, Man born biest with elfin dower.

Eye to make the evil cower.

Breaker of the darkest tower.

Silver is the springtime shower, Rids the land of wintry power.

Bifstone green on chain of gold.

Bright dawn forged in Veran's mold.

Sword in sunlight blazing bold Drives the wolves from out the fold.

Each his own to have and hold, Rising sun has conquered cold.

Rosemary stopped, not sure what she had done. Hal spoke in the language that was strange to her. Though suffering still strained his face and the sinews of his body, his eyes no longer stared at present horror. Instead, they looked far away and inward, at a place where he longed to be.

Veran's balm. . . . Rosemary clung desperately to a

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hope of which she scarcely knew the meaning, and she begged for Alan's swift return.

Alan had plucked the little plant tenderly, even in his frantic haste, and with a whispered apology he stowed it carefully in his pouch. But he rode Night Storm away at breakneck speed. It was midmorning, and precious hours could never be regained.

"The single hope of Isle depends on you," he told the steed in the Old Language.

Night Storm ran through the day on numb legs that moved under him by the force of a will scarcely his own.

Alan's skillful hands guided him around the obstacles that the exhausted horse no longer noticed. The night was harder yet. Stormy plunged and stumbled, and Alan talked to him constantly, encouraging him through almost every stride. Not too far ahead, a normal three days' ride from Celydon, he knew that Corin was waiting with Alfie.

Night Storm had to make it that far.

But the horse did not think he could. Never had he been so pushed to the limits of his strength. If it had been Rafe who lay on the sharp edge of death, perhaps he would have discovered by himself the strength that lies beyond the limits. But love of Hal or Alan was not in him, and there came a time when the authority of the Old Language no longer moved him. He stumbled, fell and lay still.

Alan jerked his leg out of the way in time. He said nothing. He loosened the girth and tugged the saddle clear. He poured his remaining water over Night Storm's head and down his throat. Of his own gear he threw aside water flask, food, boots-everything except his sword and his precious pouch. Then he went to the horse's head.

"Now," he ordered, "up!"

Stormy did not even twitch an ear.

Desperation had made Alan ruthless. He straddled the Inert body, drew his sword and deliberately struck the horse on the flank with the flat of the blade.

With a scream of fury. Night Storm scrambled to his feet. Never, from the time he was a tiny foal, had he met with any treatment but deepest respect. Now his only thought was to crush, maim, kill the one who had done this indignity-but the man was not within his reach. A weight was on his back, and a coldly mocking

218 THE SILVER SUN.

voice said, "Now, you coward, runt" And, unbelievably, the sword struck again-

Night Storm whirled away like the wind of his name.

He did not realize that day had dawned, that the black- ness before his eyes was not the blackness of night. Blinded by exhaustion, hatred and shame, he ran until he felt his heart would burst. He ran for fear of the pun- ishing sword. He ran in unreasoning hope of leaving the terrible man behind. He burned with mortification and the angry desire to prove his greatness, to win revenge with his own suffering and death. He ran until, incredibly, he was pulled to a stop. But his legs which could still carry him along would not support him, standing. Black- ness engulfed him as he fell gently to the ground, con- scious of nothing until Corin woke him.

Miles away, darkness had come before Alan's eyes also. He laid down his head and entrusted to Alfie the task of taking him with all speed to Celydon.

He came with the first sunlight of the new day. Rose- mary heard the clatter of Alfie's swift hooves on the cobbles of the courtyard below, and in a few minutes Rafe had helped Alan to the bedside. Alan was a ghastly sight, with blackened, bloodshot, sunken eyes in a hollow face that twitched with sleeplessness. But Hal was like a spirit barely visible in daylight. So wasted was his body that he only seemed to live in the tortured soul that cried from bis gray eyes. Fever burned him like torment, but it was not that which troubled him. He still cried out softly, in unintelligible words, and would have moved if he had had the strength.

Servants brought a brazier with boiling water, and Alan shakily placed the little flower in it, whispering words Rosemary did not understand. But she sensed it was a prayer, and bowed her head. In a moment a feel- ing of peace and comfort crept over her, and the anxious lines of strain fell from her face. She looked at Hal, no longer in desperate suspense, but in breathless hope; her mind's eye saw him sleeping sweetly, Alan knelt, leaning on the bed, and from under his tunic he pulled a green stone. "Lysse," he breathed, as if to a presence in the room, "you and your people, help him." Alan pressed the cool stone to his lips, and though his eyes showed un- consolable longing. Rosemary saw that the quivering nerves of his face had stilled.

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Hal stirred and sighed, murmuring something she did not understand, something about Adaoun. Then his lids closed gently over eyes deep and calm as a mountain lake.

Alan, scarcely breathing, reached out to stroke his peace- ful face, and Rosemary also came close to touch. She smoothed the pillow and drew up the covers around Hal's neck, but Alan buried his face in the blankets and wept for sheer relief. Rosemary touched his shoulder, then left him there with Rafe.

"He is sleeping quietly," she told her father, where he sat keeping Robin company in Corin's absence. Then, feeling not at all strange, she went to the stable, to where Arundel and Alfie shared a large box stall. "He lives," she told them. "He lives. Do you understand me?"

Arundel arched his lovely neck, and over the serene waters of Celydon he sent a great, ringing neigh of trium- phant joy.

Alan never remembered going to sleep after his four-day ride- When he awoke, much later, he found Rate sitting by him anxiously, as if he were the invalid. He ducked Rate's offers of food and hurried to Hal's chamber. Hal was awake, with Rosemary in attendance, but too weak to do more than gaze with faintly wondering eyes. Alan could see that he scarcely knew where he was.

In the days that followed, Alan and Rosemary tended Hal constantly. Rosemary held the cup or the spoon while Alan raised the helpless head on the pillow. Alan lifted and bathed the frail body while Rosemary changed the sheets. Together they put on fresh bandages and dressing.

Within a few days Hal started to mend. His wounds closed and dried, and he gained some flesh. He moved some- times, trying to care for himself. Once in a while he whis- pered a few words in answer to some query of theirs. He slept most of the time. But when he woke, his eyes were puzzled, wondering how he had come from the horrors of the torture chamber to the care of these loving people.

On the third day, Corin came back with Night Storm.

Alan met him at the gates. "Hal is much better," he told him gladly, and told it to the steed in the Elder Tongue, with fervent thanks. Stormy lifted his handsome head, and

229.

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for a moment Corin's sober face glowed with happiness.

Then he asked about Robin.

"He is mending well," answered Alan, wincing guiltily.

He had only been to see Robin once. The youth had been seriously hurt, and deserved more attention from his friends, but even Corin had been torn from his side. Alan could only hope he understood. Snared in his thoughts, he burst out, "Cory, it had to be you. You had traveled that way with me, and knew the place I named."

"Of course," replied Corin in surprise, and peered at Alan. "Your troubles are not yet over, are they."

"I'll take the horses to the stable," said Alan gruffly.

"You go to Robin."

"And Hal."

"Nay, not Hal. He is not yet ready.**

Another person came to the castle that day, anxious about Hal, a daring and unaccustomed visitor: Ket. Rafe brought him to the lady, and he was glad enough to give her his news. The kingsmen, after searching near White- water for a few days, had backtracked into the Forest, and Ket's men had dispatched them. Rosemary thanked him for his good tidings, but explained that Hal was not yet strong enough to see him.