What happened during the days immediately following the fatal battle of St Aubin du Cormier, Ralph Lisle never clearly knew. All he could remember was an indistinct nightmare of strange faces, rough and coarse, sometimes fierce and cruel, but amid them all he always saw a pale oval face, with large, wistful, brown eyes, and masses of wavy, dark hair, and then he felt quiet. He could recollect nothing until one night he seemed suddenly to awake, and found himself in a low, rough room, with a strong smell of burnt peat, and a fresh breeze blowing in through an opening in one side. It was nearly dark, save where the bright light of the moon fell upon the rude clay floor, all littered with straw and refuse. Through the opening, which served for window and door alike, he could see a broad gleam of glancing light which he did not trouble himself to think about. He wondered where he could be. There were no sounds in the room. He raised his head to look round. He could not do it. Was he still in a dream? he wondered. Why could he not move himself easily? He lay still again, and must have dozed off, for when he again looked round there were some figures in the room, and one--that of a girl--was softly stealing away from him towards a tall man, and he could hear her say in a low tone,--

"He is sleeping gently."

"That is well, my daughter, go thou to rest now. Marie will see that he is cared for."

Ralph made a little movement; the girl stopped, and looked round. There was a small rushlight on a table; its light fell on her face. Where had he seen that gentle, winsome head and eyes? Ralph said,--

"Where am I? What has happened? Why, what's come to my voice?"

"Oh, father, I am so glad!" cried the girl, and turned quickly back to the couch where Ralph lay. The tall man stepped across the room, taking the rushlight in his hand.

Ralph could not recall the face or figure; he felt sure he had never seen either, and yet he had heard the voice.

"Thou art on the road to health, my son," said the man. "Thou hast been like to die for a week past."

"Where am I?"

"Safe in the cottage of a hind. But thou shalt know all to-morrow an thou art in trim to hear news."

So saying, the tall figure removed the light, and in a few minutes more all was quiet in the cottage.

The next morning found Ralph much better. He now learnt where he was, and who had saved him.

"But there is great risk still," said the girl, "and I know not how we may fare. Jean is very rough, and I doubt he is not to be trusted far. His wife Marie is as true as steel, but alack! we English are not overmuch liked, and I hear there are men-at-arms beating the country side. But now thou art better, we can move," she added cheerily.

Ralph saw how nobly these strangers had acted by him. He could not understand why. They had risked their lives to save him, and this, too, when the chances were very small that they could ever nurse him through the fever, which resulted from the exhaustion, heat, and wounds of that dreadful day of St Aubin. He did not yet know all.

"But who are you?" he asked languidly.

"Ah, now, who do you think?"

"You are not--no, you can't be. Well, I don't know who you are. But I seem to have seen you before."

"Where? Can't you call it to mind?"

"Was it in the lists at Carisbrooke?"

"In sooth it was," said the girl, laughing; "and somewhere else, too."

"Not at Appuldurcombe, was it?"

"Ay, marry was it, and elsewhere, too. At it again." But then seeing the effort of memory was too much for Ralph in his weak state, the girl added,--"There, you can't think now. Lie still, and I will tell you. Do you mind lending some poor vagrants a pony at Thruxton? Do you mind a certain night, when you were nigh going over the edge of a cliff near St Catherine's Down? You never knew who it was that spoke to you that night in the mist? And you never knew who sent you the glove? Ah, well! 'twas lucky for you you wore it, or father would have knocked you off like all the others. And why do you think I did it?" she said, with an arch smile.

"I can't tell," said Ralph, dreamily.

"Well, but you might think." Then seeing that Ralph's thoughts were far away, she added, in a pitying tone,--"Why, because thou wast so kind to father and me that day at Thruxton. You little knew who I was."

"And who are you?" said Ralph absently.

"Oh, that is a merry conceit. Don't you know now?"

"No; tell me. How can I tell?"

"Why, I'm Aunt Yolande's niece."

"Aunt Yolande's niece!" cried Ralph in amazement, utterly astounded at the unexpected answer, and not at all able to take in the truth of the remark.

"Yes I am, although you may find it hard to credit, and my father is Sir George Lisle, and he fled for his life from the field of Stoke, trusting to the generosity of the Captain of the Wight, who, he thought, was his greatest enemy, but whom he knew to be a very noble knight."

"And he was not wrong," said Ralph, sadly but proudly.

"Nay he was not wrong. But he tried to give his life for the Captain's, when he found out how great an injury he had done him. Do you remember Sister Agnes that day I saw you at Appuldurcombe? Do you know who she is?"

"No. Who is she?"

"She is my mother," said Magdalen, softly and sadly.

"Your mother!" said Ralph in astonishment. "But she is a nun."

"Yes, she is now; but she was Lady Lisle. I can't call her much to mind at that time, for she left me when I was only four years old."

"Why did she leave you?" said Ralph, becoming more interested.

"'Tis a sad story, and I know not if I know all myself. But she was not happy, and could not bear her life. She took the veil in London, and became a Sister of St Clare."

"And how did you find out she was your mother?"

"Do you mind that night in the snow when father and the Captain fought? You did not know it was the Hermit of St Catherine's and I who came. I only found out too late; but I could not have done anything to prevent their fighting had I known sooner. After father was so sore wounded, the Hermit, who has been a knight himself, and knew father as a boy, took him to the good Sisters of Appuldurcombe to be nursed, and for a long time father was between life and death. In his ravings, Sister Agnes--that's my mother, you know--who took her turn to nurse him with the others--but not at first, because she had been very ill herself--heard him call her by her real name, and she knew him, of course, directly she saw him. She then for the first time heard how cruelly he had mistrusted her in her flight, and that he--well, she made up her mind to tell him everything if he should get well. I don't know what happened, but father became quite altered. He was a long time getting well; and then you all went on that dolorous journey. But you never saw me passing you that evening near Wootton. Father's life was at stake if he should be discovered; and he heard that there were spies of the King's looking out for him; for a rumour had got abroad of an unknown knight, wearing a Yorkist collar, having been at a tourney at Carisbrooke--and it might have been the missing Lord Lovell. Well (but I shall never get done), we managed to get on board a Norman ship of St Vaast, come over with salt, which took us over to Barfleur; and then we heard for the first time that Eustace Bowerman had gotten over there, and was being made much of because he said he could tell the French governor of the province all about what was going on here. I also heard he had vowed to kill some one against whom he had a deadly hate, and I knew that must be you. As Master Bowerman was a likely-looking youth, and well spoken, and not wanting in a ready address and lying tongue, he got on marvellous well, and indeed he helped the French; for they, who thought the Captain of the Wight was a very powerful prince, seeing he was uncle to our Queen, and who dreaded he would bring over a very powerful meynie, were full glad to hear how small a force he could muster, and that made them right hardy and joyous; so that they fought on that bitter day with greater heart than they are wont to do when they meet with us. For they knew right well that those other seventeen hundred in red crosses were but poor weak Bretons. My father, who was a well-known Yorkist, all of which faction were welcome in France as being useful to keep our King in check, was readily allowed his freedom, and he offered his sword to the Seigneur de la Trimouille ............