"Idler!" said Kenkenes.
"Nay," she answered with a smile, "I am at work--learned work."
"Gathering witch-weeds for an incantation, sorceress?"
"Not so. I am hunting herbs to make simples for the sick."
"Of a truth? Then never before now have I craved for an illness that I
might select my leech."
Again she smiled and made a sheaf of the herbs, preparatory to binding
it. The bundle was unruly, and several of the plants dropped. She
bent to pick them up and others fell. Kenkenes came to her rescue and
gathered them all into his large grasp.
"Now, while I hold it," he suggested.
With the most gracious self-possession she smoothed out the fiber, put
it twice, thrice about the sheaf and knotted it, her fingers, cool and
moist after their contact with the marsh sedge, touching the sculptor's
more than once.
"There! I thank thee."
"Are there any sick in the camp?"
"Only those who have been blinded by the stone-dust. But I prepare for
sickness during health."
"A wise provision. Would we might prepare for sorrow during
contentment."
"We may lay up comfort for us against the coming of misfortune."
"How?"
"In choosing friends," she answered.
His mind went back to the scene of that morning.
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