brought. He was charmed to see that between them they left not a crumb. When Makali rose her face had lost the knotted look, and her dark eyes,though still large and still concerned, were tranquil. She has a peacefulheart, he thought. At the same moment his physician's eye caught the signs;she was pregnant, probably about three months along. She whispered to thechild, who trotted away. She came back to the chair at the bedside, which hehad already relinquished. "I am going to examine and dress his wound," Hamidsaid. "Will you watch, dema, or come back?" "Watch," she said. "Good," hesaid. Taking off his coat, he asked her to have hot water sent in from thekitchen. "We have it piped," she said, and went to a door in the farthestshadowy corner. He had not expected such an amenity. Yet he knew that some ofthese island farms were very ancient places of civilization, drawing for theircomfort and provision on inexhaustible sun, wind, and tide, settled in a wayof life as immemorial as that of their plow-lands and pastures, as full andsecure. Not the show-wealth of the city, but the deep richness of the land,was in the steaming pitcher she brought him, and in the woman who broughtit. "You don't need it boiling?" she asked, and he said, "This is what Iwant." She was quick and steady, relieved to have a duty, to be of use. Whenhe bared the great sword-wound across her husband's abdomen he glanced up ather to see how she took it. Compressed lips, a steady gaze. "This," he said,his fingers above the long, dark, unhealed gash, "looks the worst; but this,here, is the worst. That is superficial, a mere slash as the sword withdrew.But here, it went in, and deep." He probed the wound. There was no shrinkingor quiver in the man's body; he lay insensible. "The sword withdrew," Hamidwent on, "as the swordsman died. Your husband killed him even as he struck.And took the sword from him. When his men came around him he was holding it inhis left hand and his own sword in his right, though he could not rise fromhis knees... . Both those swords came here with us... . There, you see?That was a deep thrust. And a wide blade. That was nearly a deathblow. But notquite, not quite. Though to be sure, it took its toll." He looked up ather openly, hoping she would meet his eyes, hoping to receive from her theglance of acceptance, intelligence, recognition that he had seen in this faceand that among Sandry's people. But her eyes were on the purple and lividwound, and her face was simply intent. "Was it wise to move him, carry him sofar?" she asked, not questioning his judgment, but in wonder. "The Doctor said it would do him no harm," Hamid said. "And it has done none. The fever isgone, as it has been for nine days now." She nodded, for she had felt how coolFarre's skin was. "The inflammation of the wound is, if anything, less than itwas two days ago. The pulse and breath are strong and steady. This was theplace for him to be, dema." "Yes," she said. "Thank you. Thank you,Hamiddem." Her clear eyes looked into his for a moment before returning to thewound, the motionless, muscular body, the silent face, the closedeyelids. Surely, Hamid thought, surely if it were true she'd know it! Shecouldn't have married the man not knowing! But she says nothing. So it's nottrue, it's only a story... . But this thought, which gave him a tremendousrelief for a moment, gave way to another: She knows and is hiding from theknowledge. Shutting the shadow into the locked room. Closing her ears in casethe word is spoken. He found he had taken a deep breath and was holding it.He wished the Farmwife were older, tougher, that she loved her farmer less. Hewished he knew what the truth was, and that he need not be the one to speakit. But on an utterly unexpected impulse, he spoke: "It is not death," hesaid, very low, almost pleading. She merely nodded, watching. When he reachedfor a clean cloth, she had it ready to his hand. As a physician, he asked herof her pregnancy. She was well, all was well. He ordered her to walk daily, tobe two hours out of the sickroom in the open air. He wished he might go withher, for he liked her and it would have been a pleasure to walk beside her,watching her go along tall and lithe and robust. But if she was to leaveFarre's side for two hours, he was to replace her there: that was simplyunderstood. He obeyed her implicit orders as she obeyed his explicit ones. His own freedom was considerable, for she spent most of the day in the

sickroom, and there was no use his being there, too, little use his beingthere at all; in fact: Farre needed nothing from him or her or anyone, asidefrom the little nourishment he took. Twice a day, with infinite patience, shecontrived to feed him ten or a dozen sips of Dr. Saker's rich brew of meat andherbs and medicines, which Hamid concocted and strained daily in the kitchenwith the cooks' interested aid. Aside from those two half hours, and once aday the bed-jar for a few drops of urine, there was nothing to be done. Nochafing or sores developed on Farre's skin. He lay unmoving, showing nodiscomfort. His eyes never opened. Once or twice, she said, in the night, hehad moved a little, shuddered. Hamid had not seen him make any movement fordays. Surely, if there was any truth in the old book Dr. Saker had shown himand in Pask's unwilling and enigmatic hints of confirmation, Makali wouldknow? But she said never a word, and it was too late now for him to ask. Hehad lost his chance. And if he could not speak to her, he would not go behindher back, asking the others if there was any truth in this tale. Of course there isn't, he told his conscience. A myth, a rumor, a folktale of the 'OldIslanders'... and the word of an ignorant man, a saddler.... Superstition! What do I see when I look at my patient? A deep coma. Adeep, restorative coma. Unusual, yes, but not abnormal, not uncanny. Perhapssuch a coma, a very long vegetative period of recovery, common to theseislanders, an inbred people, would be the origin of the myth, muchexaggerated, made fanciful... . They were a healthy lot, and though heoffered his services he had little to do once he had reset a boy's badlysplinted arm and scraped out an old fellow's leg abscesses. Sometimes littleIdi tagged after him. Clearly she adored her father and missed his company.She never asked, "Will he get well," but Hamid had seen her crouched at thebedside, quite still, her cheek against Farre's unresponding hand. Touched bythe child's dignity, Hamid asked her what games she and her father had played.She thought a long time before she said, "He would tell me what he was doingand sometimes I could help." Evidently she had simply followed Farre in hisdaily round of farmwork and management. Hamid provided only an unsatisfactory,frivolous substitute. She would listen to his tales of the court and city fora while, not very interested, and soon would run off to her own small, seriousduties. Hamid grew restive under the burden of being useless. He found walking soothed him, and went almost daily on a favorite circuit: down to thequay and along the dunes to the southeast end of the island, from which hefirst saw the open sea, free at last of the whispering green levels ofthe reedbeds. Then up the steepest slope on Sandry, a low hill of worn graniteand sparse earth, for the view of sea and tidal dams, island fields andgreen marshes from its summit, where a cluster of windmills caught the seawind with slender vanes. Then down the slope past the trees, the Old Grove, tothe farmhouse. There were a couple of dozen houses in sight from Sandry Hill,but 'the farmhouse' was the only one so called, as its owner was calledthe Husbandman, or Farmer Sandry, or simply Sandry if he was away from theisland. And nothing would keep an Islander away from his island but his dutyto the crown. Rooted folk, Hamid thought wryly, standing in the lane near theOld Grove to look at the trees. Elsewhere on the island, indeed on all theislands, there were no trees to speak of. Scrub willows down along thestreams, a few orchards of wind-dwarfed, straggling apples. But here in theGrove were great trees, some with mighty trunks, surely hundreds of years old,and none of them less than eight or ten times a man's height. They did notcrowd together but grew widely spaced, each spreading its limbs and crownbroadly. In the spacious aisles under them grew a few shrubs and ferns and athin, soft, pleasant grass. Their shade was beautiful on these hot summer dayswhen the sun glared off the sea and the channels and the sea wind scarcelystirred the fiery air. But Hamid did not go under the trees. He stood in thelane, looking at that shade under the heavy foliage. Not far from the lane he could see in the grove a sunny gap where an old tree had come down, perishingin a winter gale maybe a century ago, for nothing was left of the fallen trunkbut a grassy hummock a few yards long. No sapling had sprung up or been