On the landing he met Nicholas descending. He held him a moment in talk
of the sick man above, and outwardly at least he was now entirely
composed. He dispatched him upstairs again upon a trumped-up errand
that must keep him absent for some little time, whilst himself he went
to get the things he needed.
He returned below with them, and when he had assisted his brother into
fresh garments with as little movement as possible so as not to disturb
his dressing of the wound or set it bleeding afresh, he took the
blood-stained doublet, vest, and shirt which he had ripped and flung
them, too, into the great fire.
When some moments later Nicholas entered the vast room he found the
brothers sitting composedly at table. Had he faced Lionel he would have
observed little amiss with him beyond the deep pallor of his face. But
he did not even do so much. Lionel sat with his back to the door and
the servant's advance into the room was checked by Sir Oliver with the
assurance that they did not require him. Nicholas withdrew again, and
the brothers were once more alone.
Lionel ate very sparingly. He thirsted and would have emptied the
measure of posset, but that Sir Oliver restrained him, and refused him
anything but water lest he should contract a fever. Such a sparing meal
as they made--for neither had much appetite--was made in silence. At
last Sir Oliver rose, and with slow, heavy steps, suggestive of his
humour, he crossed to the fire-place.
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