A great fear that he was dead descended upon her, and to heighten the horror of it came the thought that he had received his death-wound through her agency.

With a moan of anguish she went down upon her knees beside him.

She raised his head and pillowed it in her lap, calling to him by name, as though her voice alone must suffice to bring him back to life and consciousness.
Instinctively she unfastened his doublet at the neck, and sought to draw it away that she might see the nature of his hurt and staunch the wound if possible, but her strength ebbed away from her, and she abandoned her task, unable to do more than murmur his name.
"Crispin, Crispin, Crispin!" She stooped and kissed the white, clammy forehead, then his lips, and as she did so a tremor ran through her, and he opened his eyes.

A moment they looked dull and lifeless, then they waxed questioning.
A second ago these two had stood in anger with the width of the room betwixt them; now, in a flash, he found his head on her lap, her lips on his.

How came he there?
What meant it?
"Crispin, Crispin," she cried, "thank God you did but swoon!" Then the awakening of his soul came swift upon the awakening of his body.