Quoth Beltane 'twixt his kisses:

"Wherefore wert so cold and strange to me but yesterday?"

"Dear my heart," she murmured, "I needs must make thee suffer a little— just a very little, for that I had known so much of pain and heartache because of thee. But I was glad to see thee bear the wallet of poor Fidelis—and O, 'twas foolish in thee to grieve for him, for he being gone, thy Helen doth remain—unless, forsooth, thou had rather I came to thee bedight again in steel—that did so chafe me, Beltane—indeed, my tender skin did suffer much on thy account—"

"Then soon with my kisses will I seek—" But a cool, soft hand schooled his hot lips to silence and the while he kissed those sweet arresting fingers, she spake 'twixt smiling lips: "Prithee where is my shoe that was Genevra's? Indeed, 'twas hard matter to slip it off for thee, Beltane, for Genevra's foot is something smaller than mine—a very little! Nay, crush me not, messire, but tell me, what of him ye came hither seeking—the man in the long cloak—what of him?"

"Nought!" answered Beltane, "the world to-night doth hold but thee and me—"

"Aye, my Beltane, as when sick of thy wound within the little cave I nursed thee, all unknown. O love, in all thy sickness I was with thee, to care for thee. Teaching good Roger to tend thee and—to drug thee to gentle sleep that I might hold thee to me in the dark and—kiss thy sleeping lips—"

"Ah!" he sighed, "and methought 'twas but a dream! O Helen, sure none ever loved as we?"

"Nay, 'twere thing impossible, Beltane."

"And thou art truly mine?"

"Beltane—thou dost know this! Ah, love—what would you?" For of a sudden his mighty arms were close about her, and rising, he lifted her upon his breast. "What would'st do with me, Beltane?"

"Do?" quoth he, "do? This night, this very hour thou shalt wed me—"

"Nay, dear my lord—bethink thee—"

"It hath been my thought—my dearest dream since first I saw thee within the woods at Mortain—so now shalt wed me—"

"But, Beltane—"

"Shalt wed me!"

"Nay, love, I—I—thou art so sudden!"

"Aye, within this hour shalt call me 'husband'!"

"Wilt force me, my lord?"

"Aye, verily," said Beltane, "as God sees me, I will!"

"Why then," she sighed, "how may I gainsay thee!" and she hid her face against him once more. But, as he turned to leave the arbour, she stayed him:

"I prithee, now, whither dost take me, Beltane?"

"To the minster—anywhere, so that I find good Friar Martin."

"Nay, prithee, Beltane, prithee set me down!"

"What would'st, my Helen?"

"Loose me and shalt see."

So Beltane, sighing, let her go, whereupon she took a small silver whistle that hung at her girdle and sounded it.

"Ah—what do you?" he questioned.

"Wait!" said she, roguish-eyed.

And in a while came the sound of steps from the outer garden, and looking thither, Beltane beheld a tall man in cloak of blue camlet, and when this man drew near, behold! it was Giles.

"Giles!" quoth he, "thou wily rogue—"

"Giles," spake the Duchess softly, "I pray you let them come!"

Then Giles bowed him low, and smiling, hasted joyously away.

"Beltane, dear my lord," said the Duchess a little breathlessly, "because thou art true man and thy love is a noble love, I did lure thee hither to-night that I might give myself to thee in God's holy sight—an so it be thy will, my lord. O Beltane, yonder Giles and Roger do bring—Friar Martin to make me—thy wife—wherefore I do grow something fearful. 'Tis foolish in me to fear thee and yet—I do—a little, Beltane!" So saying, she looked on him with eyes full sweet and troubled, wherefore he would have kissed her, but steps drew nigh and lo! without the arbour stood the white friar with Giles and Roger in the shadows behind.

Now came Beltane and took the friar's hand.

"Holy father," said he, "O good Friar Martin, though I am but what I am, yet hath this sweet and noble lady raised me up to be what I have dreamed to be. To-night, into my care she giveth her sweet body and fair fame, of which God make me worthy."

"Sweet children," spake the friar, "this world is oft-times a hard and cruel world, but God is a gentle God and merciful, wherefore as he hath given to man the blessed sun and the sweet and tender flowers, so hath he given him love. And when two there be who love with soul as well as body, with mind as well as heart, then methinks for them this world may be a paradise. And, my children, because I do love thee for thy sweet lives and noble works, so do I joy now to bind ye one to another."

Then hand in hand, the Duchess and my Beltane knelt together, and because he had no ring, needs must she give to him one of hers; so were they wed.

As one that dreamed, Beltane knelt there murmuring the responses, and thus knelt he so long that he started to feel a soft touch upon his cheek, and looking up, behold! they were alone.

"Dost dream, my lord?" she questioned, tender-voiced.

"Aye, verily," he answered, "of the wonder of our love and thee, beloved, as I did see thee first within the thicket at Mortain, beautiful as now, though then was thy glorious hair unbound. I dream of thine eyes beneath thy nun's veil when I did bear thee in my arms from Thornaby—but most do I dream of thee as Fidelis, and the clasp of thy dear arms within the dark."

"But thou didst leave me in Mortain thicket despite my hair, Beltane! And thou didst tell me mine eyes were not—a nun's eyes, Beltane—"

"Wherefore this night do I thank God!" said he, drawing her close beside him on the bench.

"And for my arms, Beltane, thou didst think them man's arms—because they went bedight in mail, forsooth!"

"So this night shall they go bedight in kisses of my mouth! loose me this sleeve, I pray—"

"Nay, Beltane,—I do beseech thee—"

"Art not my wife?"

"Aye, my lord."

"Then loose me thy sleeve, Helen."

So blushing, trembling, needs must she obey and yield her soft arms to his caresses and hide her face because of their round, white nakedness.

But in a while she spake, low and very humble.

"Dear my lord, the moon doth set already, methinks!"

"Aye, but there is no cloud to dim her glory to-night, Helen!"

"But the hour waxeth—very late, my lord and I—must away."

"Aye, beloved, let us go."

"Nay my lord, I—O dear Beltane—"

"Wife!" said he, "dear my love and wife, have I not waited long enough?"

Hand in hand they walked amid the flowers with eyes only for each other until came they to a stair and up the stair to a chamber, rich with silk and arras and sweet with spicy odours, a chamber dim-lighted by a silver lamp pendent from carven roof-beam, whose soft glow filled the place with shadow. Yet even in this tender dimness, or because of it, her colour ebbed and flowed, her breath came apace and she stood before him voiceless and very still save for the sweet tumult of her bosom.

Then Beltane loosed off his sword and laid it upon the silken couch, but perceiving how she trembled, he set his arm about her and drew her to the open lattice where the moon made a pool of glory at their feet.

"Dost fear me, Helen?"

"Nay, my lord, I—think not."

"Then wherefore dost tremble?"

"Ah, Beltane, thou methinks dost—tremble also?"

Then Beltane knelt him at her feet and looked upon her loveliness with yearning eyes, yet touched her not:

"O beloved maid!" said he, "this is, methinks, because of thy sweet virgin eyes! For I do so love thee, Helen, that, an it be thy will, e'en now will I leave thee until thy heart doth call me!"

Now stooped she and set her white arms about him and her soft cheek to his hot brow.

"Dear my lord and—husband," she whispered, "'tis for this so sweet tenderness in thee that I do love thee best, methinks!"

"And fear me no more?"

"Aye, my lord, I do fear thee when—when thou dost look on me so, but— when thou dost look on me so—'tis then I do love thee most, my Beltane!"

Up to his feet sprang Beltane and caught her to him, breast to breast and lip to lip.

The great sword clattered to the floor; but now, even as she sank in his embrace, she held him off to stare with eyes of sudden terror as, upon the stilly night broke a thunderous rumble, a shock, and thereafter sudden roar and outcry from afar, that swelled to a wild hubbub of distant voices and cries, lost, all at once, in the raving clamour of the tocsin.

Locked thus within each other's arms, eye questioned eye, while ever the bell beat out its fierce alarm. And presently, within the garden below, was the sound of running feet and, coming to the casement, Beltane beheld a light that hovered to and fro, growing ever nearer and brighter, until he saw that he who bore it was Black Roger; and Roger's face shone with sweat and his breath laboured with his running.

"Master!" he panted, "O master—a mine! a mine! They have breached the wall beside the gate—hark, where they storm the city! Come, master, O come ere it be too late!"

Now Beltane clenched his fists and scowled on pale-faced Roger and from him to the radiant sky, yet when he spake his voice was low and even:

"I thank thee, faithful Roger! Go you and summon such of our foresters as ye may, muster them in the market-square, there will I come to thee."

Now when Roger's flickering light had vanished he turned, and found Helen close beside him; her cheeks were pale, but in her hand she held his sword.

"'Tis well thou wert not all unarmed, my lord!" she sighed, and forthwith belted the weapon about him. "Kneel down, I prithee, that I may lace for thee thy hood of mail." And when it was done she knelt also, and taking his hand pressed it to her throbbing heart, and holding him thus fell to prayer:

"O God of mercy, have in care those that fight in our defence this night, in especial guard and shield this man of mine that I do love beyond all men—O God of mercy, hear us!"

So they arose, and as he looked on her so looked she on him, and of a sudden clasped him in close and passionate embrace:

"Beltane—Beltane!" she sobbed, "God knoweth I do so love thee that thy dear flesh is mine, methinks, and the steel that woundeth thee shall hurt me also. And—O love—an thou should'st die to-night, then surely will this heart of mine die with thee—no man shall have my love other than thou—so to my grave will I go thy virgin wife for thy dear sake. Fare thee well Beltane, O dear my husband, fare thee well. Tarry no longer, lest I pray thee on my knees to go not to the battle."

So Beltane kissed her once and went forth of the chamber, looking not back. She heard the ring of his armour a-down the stair, the quick tread of his feet, and leaning from the casement watched him go; and he, knowing her there, looked not up, but with teeth hard shut and iron hands clenched, strode fast upon his way.

And now, since he looked not up, it seemed to her she was out of his thoughts already, for his face was stern and set, and in his eyes was the fierce light of battle.

And she, kneeling alone in the failing glory of the moon, hid her face within yearning, desolate arms and wept long and bitterly.



CHAPTER LXVIII

FRIAR MARTIN'S DYING PROPHECY

Now as Beltane hasted along he heard the tread of mailed feet, and looking round beheld the white friar, and 'neath his white frock mail gleamed, while in his hand he grasped a heavy sword. Close on his heels came many men, old men these for the most part, grey of beard and white of head, and their armour, even as they, was ancient and rusty; but the faces that stared from casque and mail-hood were grim and sorrow-lined, stern faces and purposeful, and the eyes that gleamed 'neath shaggy brows ere now had looked on sons and brothers done to death by fire and gallows, and wives and daughters shamed and ravished. And ever as they came Friar Martin smote, sword in hand, on door and shuttered window, and cried hoarse and loud:

"Ye men of Belsaye—fathers and husbands, arm ye, arm ye! Ye greybeards that have seen Duke Ivo's mercy, arm ye! Your foes be in, to burn, to loot again and ravish! O ye husbands and fathers, arise, arise—arm, arm and follow me to smite for wife and children!"

So cried the tall white friar, pallid of cheek but dauntless of eye, and ever as he cried, smote he upon door and shutter with his sword, and ever his company grew.

Within the square was Roger, hoarse-voiced, with Beltane's battered war-helm on a pike whereto the foresters mustered—hardy and brown-faced men, fitting on bascinet and buckling belt, yet very quiet and orderly. And beside Roger, Ulf the Mighty leaned him upon his axe, and in the ranks despite their bandages stood Orson the Tall and Jenkyn o' the Ford, even yet in wordy disputation.

Quoth Beltane:

"How many muster ye, Roger?"

"One hundred and nine, master."

"And where is Walkyn—where Giles?"

"With Sir Benedict, hard by the gate, master. My lord, come take thy helm—come take it, master, 'twill be a close and bitter fight—and thou art no longer thine own man—bethink thee of thy sweet wife, Sir Fidelis, master!"

So Beltane did on the great casque and even now came Sir Brian beside whom Sir Hacon limped, yet with sword bloody.

"Ha, my lord," he cried, "mine eyes do joy to see thee and these goodly fellows—'tis hard and fierce business where Benedict and his pikes do hold the gate—"

"Aye, forsooth," quoth Sir Brian, "they press their attack amain, for one that falleth, two do fill his place."

"Verily, and what fighting man could ask more of any foe? And we be fighting men, praise be to Saint Cuthbert—"

"Aye," quoth Roger, crossing himself, "Saint Cuthbert be our aid this night."

Forthwith Beltane formed his column and with Ulf and Roger beside him marched from the square. By narrow streets went they, 'neath dim-lighted casements where pale faces looked down to pray heaven's aid on them.

So came they where torch and lanthorn smoked and gleamed, by whose fitful light they beheld a barricade, rough and hastily contrived, whence Sir Benedict fought and Walkyn smote, with divers of their stout company and lusty fellows from the town. Above, upon the great flanking tower of the gate, was Giles with many archers who plied their whizzing shafts amain where, 'twixt outer and inner wall, the assailants sought to storm the barricade; but the place was narrow, and moreover, beyond the breach stout Eric, backed by his fierce townsmen, fought in desperate battle: thus, though the besiegers' ranks were constantly swelled by way of the breach, yet in that confined space their very numbers hampered them, while from sheltered wall and gate-tower Giles and his archers showered them with whistling shafts very fast and furious; so in that narrow place death was rife and in the fitful torch-glare was a sea of tossing steel and faces fierce and wild, and ever the clamour grew, shouts and screams and cries dreadful to be heard.

Now as Beltane stood to watch this, grim-lipped, for it needed but few to man the barricade, so narrow was it, Roger caught his arm and pointed to the housetops above them; and what he saw, others saw also, and a cry went up of wonder and amaze. For, high upon the roof, his mail agleam, his white robe whiter in the torch-glare, stood Friar Martin, while crouched behind him to left and right were many men in ancient and rusty armour, men grey-bearded and white of head, at sight of whom the roar of battle died down from sheer amaze until all men might hear the friar's words:

"Come, ye men of Belsaye!" he cried, "all ye that do love wife or daughter or little child—all ye that would maintain them innocent and pure—follow me!"

As he ended, his sword flashed, and, even as he sprang, so sprang all those behind him—down, down they leapt upon the close-ranked foemen below, so swift, so sudden and unexpected, that ere they could be met with pike or sword the thing was done. And now from that narrow way, dim-lit by lanthorn and torch-glare, there rose a sound more awful to hear than roar of battle, a hoarse and vicious sound like to the worrying snarl of many great and fierce hounds.

With ancient swords, with axe and dagger and fierce-rending teeth they fought, those fathers of Belsaye; thick and fast they fell, yet never alone, while ever they raved on, a company of madmen, behind the friar's white robe. Back and back the besiegers reeled before that raging fury—twice the white friar was smitten down yet twice he arose, smiting the fiercer, wherefore, because of his religious habit, the deathly pallor of his sunken cheek and the glare of his eyes, panic came, and all men shrank from the red sweep of his sword.

Then Sir Benedict sounded his horn, and sword in hand leapt over the barricade, and behind him Beltane with Roger and Ulf and Walkyn and their serried pikemen, while Sir Brian and Sir Hacon limped in their rear.

"The breach!" cried Sir Benedict, "seize we now the breach!"

"The breach! The breach!" roared a hundred voices. And now within the gloom steel rasped steel, groping hands seized and griped with merciless fingers; figures, dim-seen, sank smitten, groaning beneath the press. But on they fought, slipping and stumbling, hewing and thrusting, up and up over ruined masonry, over forms that groaned beneath cruel feet—on and ever on until within the narrow breach Beltane's long sword darted and thrust and Ulf's axe whirled and fell, while hard by Walkyn's hoarse shout went up in roaring triumph.

So within this narrow gap, where shapeless things stirred and whimpered in the dark, Beltane leaned breathless upon his sword and looked down upon the watch-fires of Duke Ivo's great camp. But, even as he gazed, these fires were blotted out where dark figures mounted fresh to the assault, and once again sword and axes fell to their dire work.

And ever as he fought Beltane bethought him of her whose pure lips voiced prayers for him, and his mighty arm grew mightier yet, and he smote and thrust untiring, while Walkyn raged upon his left, roaring amain for Red Pertolepe, and Ulf the strong saved his breath to ply his axe the faster.

Now presently as they fought thus, because the breach was grown very slippery, Beltane tripped and fell, but in that instant two lusty mailed legs bestrode him, and from the dimness above Roger's voice hailed:

"Get thee back, master—I pray thee get back and take thy rest awhile, my arm is fresh and my steel scarce blooded, so get thee to thy rest— moreover thou art a notch, lord—another accursed notch from my belt!"

Wherefore Beltane presently crept down from the breach and thus beheld many men who laboured amain beneath Sir Benedict's watchful eye to build a defence work very high and strong where they might command the breach. And as Beltane sat thus, finding himself very spent and weary, cometh Giles beside him.

"Lord," said he, leaning him on his bow, "the attack doth languish, methinks, wherefore I do praise the good God, for had they won the town—ah, when I do think on—her—she that is so pure and sweet—and Ivo's base soldiery—O sweet Jesu!" and Giles shivered.

"Forsooth, thou didst see fair Belsaye sacked—five years agone, Giles?"

"Aye, God forgive me master, for I—I—O, God forgive me!"

"Thou once did show me a goodly chain, I mind me, Giles."

"Aye, but I lost it—I lost it, master!" he cried eagerly, "O verily I did lose it, so did it avail me nothing."

"Moreover, Giles, thou didst with knowing laugh, vaunt that the women of Belsaye town were marvellous fair—and methinks didst speak truly, Giles!"

Now at this Giles bowed his head and turning him about, went heavily upon his way. Then, sighing, Beltane arose and came where stood Sir Benedict who forthwith hailed him blithely:

"Can we but hold them until the dawn, Beltane—and mark me, we can, here is a work shall make us strong 'gainst all attacks," and he pointed to the growing barricade. "But what of our noble Friar Martin? But for him, Beltane, but for him and his ancient company we had been hard put to it, lad. Ha, 'neath that white gown is saint and friar, and, what is better—a man! Now God be praised, yonder cometh the dawn at last! Though forsooth this hath been a sorry wedding-night for thee, dear lad—and for her, sweet maid—"

"Thou dost know then, Benedict?"

"Think ye not good Roger hasted to tell me, knowing thy joy is my joy— ha! list ye to those blessed joy-bells! glory be to God, there doth trusty Eric tell us he hath made an end of such as stormed the breach. But who cometh here? And by this hand, in tears!"

Already in the east was a roseate glory by whose soft light Beltane beheld Tall Orson, who grasped a bloody sword in one hand and wiped away his tears with the other. He, perceiving Beltane and Sir Benedict, limped to them forthwith and spake, albeit hoarse and brokenly.

"Lords, I do be bid hither to bring ye where he lieth a-dying—the noblest as do be in this world alive—his white robe all bloodied, lords, yet his face do be an angel's face!"

"Ah," sighed Beltane rising, "is it the noble Friar Martin, Orson?"

"Aye, lord, it do be he—as blessed me wi' his poor hand as do be so faint and feeble."

So saying, Orson brought them to a house beside the wall, wherein, upon a pallet, the white friar lay with Jenkyn beside him, and the white-haired Reeve and many other of the sturdy townsfolk about him.

Now came Beltane to kneel beside the friar, who, opening swooning eyes, smiled and spake faint-voiced:

"My lord Beltane—noble son, my work on earth is ended, methinks—so doth God call me hence—and I do go right gladly. These dying eyes grow dim—but with the deathless eyes of the soul I do see many things most plainly—so, dear and valiant children, hear ye this! The woes of Belsaye are past and done—behold, thy deliverance is at hand! I see one that rideth from the north—and this I give thee for a sign—he is tall, this man, bedight in sable armour and mounted upon a great white horse. And behind him marcheth a mighty following—the woods be bright with the gleam of armour! O ye valiant men—O children of Belsaye that I have loved so well, let now your hearts be glad! O Belsaye town, thy shames and sorrows be passed away forever. I see thee through the years a rich city and a happy, thy gates ever open to the woeful and distressed! Rejoice, rejoice—thy sorrows are past and done—even as mine. Ah, list—list ye to those bells! Hear ye not their joyful clamour—hearken!"

But indeed, silence had fallen upon Belsaye, and no sound brake the quiet save the distant hum and stir of conflict upon the broken wall. Nevertheless the friar's dying face waxed bright with a wondrous happiness.

"O blessed—blessed sound!" he whispered. Of a sudden he rose up from his pillow with radiant eyes uplifted, and stretched up arms in eager welcome.

"Sweet Jesu!" he whispered. Slowly his arms sank, the thin hands strove to fold themselves—fell apart, and, sighing rapturously, Friar Martin sank back upon his pillows like one that is weary, and, with the sigh, was dead. And lo! in that same moment, from tower and belfry near and far, rose a sudden wild and gladsome clamour of bells ringing out peal on peal of rapturous joy, insomuch that those who knelt beside that couch of death lifted bowed heads—eye questioning eye in a wonder beyond words.

And now, all at once was the ring and tramp of mailed feet coming swiftly, and in the doorway stood Roger, his riven mail befouled with battle.

"Lords!" he panted, "rejoice—rejoice! our woes and sorrows be past and done—hark ye to the bells! Our deliverance cometh from the north—you shall see the woods alight with—the gleam of their armour!"

Nothing saying, Beltane arose and went soft-treading from the chamber, past the blood and horror of the breach, and climbing the flanking tower beside the gate, looked to the north. And there he beheld a mighty company that marched forth of the woods, rank upon rank, whose armour, flashing in the early sun, made a dazzling splendour against the green. Company by company they mustered on the plain, knights and men-at-arms with footmen and archers beyond count.

And presently, before this deep array, two standards were advanced—a white banner whereon was a red lion and a banner on whose blue ground black leopards were enwrought.

Now as Beltane gazed upon this glorious host he felt a gentle hand touch him and turning, beheld the Duchess Helen, and her cheek showed pale with her long night vigil.

"My Beltane," said she, flushing 'neath his regard, "lord Duke of Mortain, behold yonder thy goodly powers of Mortain that shall do thy bidding henceforth—look yonder, my lord Duke!"

"Duke!" quoth Beltane, "Duke of Mortain—forsooth, and am I so indeed? I had forgot this quite, in thy beauty, my Helen, and did but know that I had to wife one that I do love beyond all created things. And now, beloved, thy sweet eyes do tell me thy night was sleepless."

"Mine eyes—ah, look not on them, Beltane, for well I know these poor eyes be all red and swollen with weeping for thee—though indeed I bathed them ere I sought thee—"

"Sweet eyes of love!" said he, setting his arm about her, "come let me kiss them!"

"Ah, no, Beltane, look yonder—behold where salvation cometh—"

"I had rather look where my salvation lieth, within these dear eyes— nay, abase them not. And didst weep for me, and wake for me, my Helen?"

"I was so—so fearful for thee, my lord."

"Aye, and what more?"

"And very sorrowful—"

"Aye, and what more?"

"And—heartsick—"

"Aye, sweet my wife—but what more?"

"And—very lonely, Beltane—"

Then my Beltane caught her close and kissed her full long, until she struggled in his embrace and slipping from him, stood all flushed and breathless and shy-eyed. But of a sudden she caught his hand and pointed where, before the glittering ranks of Mortain's chivalry, a herald advanced.

"Look, Beltane," she said, "oh, look and tell me who rideth yonder!"

Now behind this herald two knights advanced, the one in glittering armour whose shield was resplendent with many quarterings, but beholding his companion, Beltane stared in wondering awe; for lo! he saw a tall man bedight in sable armour who bore a naked sword that flashed in the sun and who bestrode a great, white charger. And because of Friar Martin's dying words, Beltane stood awed and full of amaze.

Nearer and nearer they came until all men might read the cognizance upon the first knight's resplendent shield and know him for one Sir Jocelyn, lord of Alain, but his companion they knew not, since neither charge nor blazon bore he of any sort. Of a sudden the herald set clarion to lip and blew a challenge that was taken up and answered from within the camp, and forth came Duke Ivo, bare-headed in his armour and with knights attendant, who, silencing the heralds with a gesture, spake loud and fierce.

"Sir Jocelyn, lord of Alain, why come ye against me in arms and so ungently arrayed, wherefore come ye in such force, and for what?"

Then answered Sir Jocelyn:

"My lord Ivo, thou wert upon a time our honoured guest within Mortain, thou didst with honeyed word and tender phrase woo our fair young Duchess to wife. But—and heed this, my lord!—when Helen the Beautiful, the Proud, did thy will gainsay, thou didst in hearing of divers of her lords and counsellors vow and swear to come one day and seek her with flaming brands. So here to-day stand I and divers other gentles of Mortain—in especial this right noble lord—to tell thee that so long as we be men ne'er shalt set foot across our marches. Lastly, we are hither come to demand the safe conduct from Belsaye of our lady Duchess Helen, and such of the citizens as may choose to follow her."

"So!" quoth Duke Ivo, smiling and fingering his long, blue chin, "'tis war ye do force on me, my lord of Alain?"

"Nay, messire," answered Sir Jocelyn, "that must be asked of this sable knight—for he is greater than I, and leadeth where I do but follow."

Now hereupon the black knight paced slowly forward upon his great, white horse nor stayed until he came close beside Duke Ivo. Then reining in his charger, he lifted his vizor and spake in voice deep and strong.

"O thou that men call Ivo the Duke, look upon this face—behold these white hairs, this lined brow! Bethink thee of the innocent done to cruel death by thy will, the fair cities given to ravishment and flame— and judge if this be just and sufficient cause for war, and bitter war, betwixt us!"

Now beholding the face of the speaker, his proud and noble bearing, his bold eyes fierce and bright and the grim line of nose and chin, Duke Ivo blenched and drew back, the smile fled from his lip, and he stared wide of eye and breathless.

"Beltane!" quoth he at last, "Beltane—ha! methought thee dusty bones these many years—so it is war, I judge?"

For answer Duke Beltane lifted on high the long sword he bore.

"Ivo," said he, "the cries and groans of my sorrowful and distressed people have waked me from my selfish griefs at last—so am I come for vengeance on their innocent blood, their griefs and wrongs so long endured of thee. This do I swear thee, that this steel shall go unsheathed until I meet thee in mortal combat—and ere this sun be set one of us twain shall be no more."

"Be it so," answered Black Ivo, "this night belike I shall hang thee above the ruins of Belsaye yonder, and thy son with thee!" So saying, he turned about and chin on fist rode into his camp, where was mounting and mustering in hot haste.

"Beltane," spake the Duchess, clasping Beltane's hand, "dost know at last?"

"Aye," answered he with eyes aglow, "But how cometh my noble father yonder?"

"I sought him out in Holy Cross Thicket, Beltane. I told him of thy valiant doings and of thy need of instant aid, and besought him to take up arms for thee and for me and for dear Mortain, and to lead my army 'gainst—"

But Beltane, falling before her on his knee spake quick and passionate:

"O Helen—Helen the Beautiful! without thee I had been nought, and less than nought! Without thee, Pentavalon had groaned yet 'neath cruel wrong! Without thee—O without thee, my Helen, I were a thing lost and helpless in very truth!"

Now hereupon, being first and foremost a woman, young and loving and passionate, needs must she weep over him a little and stoop to cherish his golden head on her bosom, and holding it thus sweetly pillowed, to kiss him full oft and thereafter loose him and blush and sigh and turn from his regard, all sweet and shy demureness like the very maid she was.

Whereat Beltane, forgetful of all but her loveliness, heedful of nought in the world but her warm young beauty, rose up from his knees and, trembling-mute with love, would have caught her to his eager arms; but of a sudden cometh Giles, breathless—hasting up the narrow stair and, all heedless of his lord, runneth to fling himself upon his knees before the Duchess, to catch her robe and kiss it oft.

"O dear and gracious lady!" he cried, "Genevra hath told me! And is it true thou hast promised me a place within thy court at fair Mortain—is it true thou wilt lift me up that I may wed with one so much o'er me in station—is it true thou wilt give me my Genevra, my heart's desire— all unworthy though I be—I—O—" And behold! Giles's ready tongue faltered for very gratitude and on each tanned cheek were bright, quick-falling tears.

"Giles," said she, "thou wert true and faithful to my lord when his friends were few, so methinks thou should'st be faithful and true to thy sweet Genevra—so will I make thee Steward and Bailiff of Mortain an my lord is in accord—"

"Lord," quoth Giles brokenly, "ere thou dost speak, beseech thee hear this. I have thought on thy saying regarding my past days—and grieved sorely therefore. Now an ye do think my shameful past beyond redemption, if these arms be too vile to clasp her as my wife, if my love shall bring her sorrow or shame hereafter, then—because I do truly love her—I will see her no more; I will—leave her to love one more worthy than I. And this I do swear thee, master—on the cross!"

Quoth Beltane:

"Giles, he that knoweth himself unworthy, if that his love be a true love, shall by that love make himself, mayhap, worthier than most. He that loveth so greatly that in his love base self is forgot—such a man, methinks, doth love in God-like fashion. So shall it be as my lady hath said."

Then Giles arose, and wiping off his tears strove to speak his thanks but choked upon a sob instead, and turning, hasted down the turret stair.

Now presently within the city Sir Benedict's trumpets Hew, and looking from the battlement Beltane beheld Sir Hacon mustering their stout company, knights and men-at-arms, what time Roger and Walkyn and Ulf ordered what remained of their pikemen and archers.

"Beloved!" sighed Beltane, drawing his Duchess within his arm, "see yonder, 'tis horse and saddle—soon must I leave thee again."

Now did she sigh amain, and cling to him and droop her lovely head, yet when she spake her words were brave:

"My Beltane, this love of mine is such that I would not have thee fail in duty e'en though this my heart should break—but ah! husband, stay yet a little longer, I—I have been a something lonely wife hitherto, and I—do hate loneliness, Beltane—" A mailed foot sounded upon the stone stair and, turning about, they beheld a knight in resplendent armour, blazoned shield slung before.

"Greeting to thee, my lord Duke of Mortain, and to thy lovely lady wife," spake a cheery voice, and the speaker, lifting his vizor, behold! it was Sir Benedict. "I go in mine own armour to-day, Beltane, that haply thy noble father shall know me in the press. Ha, see where he ordereth his line, 'twas ever so his custom, I mind me—in four columns with archers betwixt. Mark me now lad, I have brought thee here a helm graced with these foolish feathers as is the new fashion—white feathers, see you—that my lady's sweet eyes may follow thee in the affray."

"For that, dear Benedict," cried she, "for that shalt kiss me, so off with thy great helm!" Forthwith Sir Benedict did off his casque, and stooping, kissed her full-lipped, and meeting Beltane's eye, flushed and laughed and was solemn all in a moment.

"Ah, Beltane, dear lad," quoth he, "I envy thee and grieve for thee! To possess such a maid to wife—and to leave her—so soon! May God bring thee safe again to her white arms. Ah, youth is very sweet, lad, and love—true love is youth's fair paradise and—body o' me, there sound our tuckets! See where Ivo formeth his main battle—and yonder he posteth a goodly company to shut us up within the city. So must we wait a while until the battle joins—thy noble father is wondrous wise in war—O verily he hath seen, behold how he altereth his array! O wise Beltane!"

Now Duke Ivo threw out a screen of archers and horsemen to harass the powers of Mortain what time he formed his battle in three great companies, a deep and formidable array of knights and men-at-arms whose tall lances rose, a very forest, with pennons and banderols a-flutter in the gentle wind of morning. Far on the left showed the banner of his marshal Sir Bors; above his right battle flew the Raven banner of Sir Pertolepe the Red, and above his main battle rose his own standard— a black lion on a red field. So mustered he his powers of Pentavalon, gay with stir of pennons and rich trappings; the sun flashed back from ponderous casques and bascinets innumerable and flamed on blazoned shields. And beholding their might and confident bearing, Beltane clenched nervous hands and his mouth grew hard and grim, so turned he from this formidable host to where, just beyond the woods, his father's banner flew beside the leopards of Mortain. Conspicuous upon his white charger he beheld Duke Beltane, a proud and warlike figure, who sat his stamping war-horse deep in converse with Sir Jocelyn, while behind were the dense ranks of Mortain. Suddenly, Sir Jocelyn wheeled his charger and galloped along Mortain's front, his rich armour glittering, until he halted at the head of that knightly company posted upon the left.

Meantime, Black Ivo's archers advancing, fell into arrow formation and began to ply the Mortain ranks with clouds of shafts and bolts 'neath which divers men and horses fell—what time Black Ivo's massed columns moved slowly forward to the attack—yet Duke Beltane, sitting among his knights, stirred not, and the army of Mortain abode very silent and still. But of a sudden Duke Beltane wheeled his horse, his sword flashed on high, whereat trumpets brayed and on the instant Sir Jocelyn wheeled off to the left, he and all his company, and gathering speed began to skirt Duke Ivo's advanced pikemen and archers, and so rode down upon those men of Pentavalon who were drawn up against Belsaye. Hereupon Black Ivo would have launched a counter-charge to check Sir Jocelyn's attack, but his advanced lines of cross-bowmen and archers hampered him. Once again Duke Beltane's sword flashed up, the first line of Mortain's great array leapt forward and with levelled lances thundered down upon Black Ivo's ranks, scattering and trampling down his archers; but as they checked before the serried pikes behind, forth galloped Duke Beltane's second line and after this a third— o'erwhelming Ivo's pikemen by their numbers, and bursting over and through their torn ranks, reformed, and, spurring hard, met Ivo's rank with crashing shock in full career. And, behind this raging battle, Duke Beltane rode at the head of his reserves, keen-eyed and watchful, what time Sir Jocelyn was hotly engaged upon the left, nigh unto the town itself.

"Ah, Beltane!" sighed the Duchess, shivering and covering her face— "'tis horrible, horrible—see how they fall!"

"Nay, my brave Fidelis, heed rather how valiant Sir Jocelyn and his knights drive in their advanced lines—ha! Benedict, see how he breaks their array—an he can but turn their flank—"

"Nay, Beltane—yonder cometh the Raven banner where Pertolepe spurreth in support—"

"Aye, but yonder doth my father launch yet another charge—ha! Benedict, let us out and aid them—the way lieth open beyond the drawbridge an we can but turn Ivo's flank!" quoth Beltane looking ever upon the battle, "O, methinks the time is now, Benedict!"

With Helen's soft hand a-tremble in his, Beltane hasted down from the tower and Sir Benedict followed, until they were come to the square where, amid the joyful acclaim of the populace, their small and hardy following were drawn up; and, as they came, from townsfolk and soldiery a shout arose:

"Beltane—the Duke—the Duke!"

"My lord Duke of Mortain," quoth Sir Benedict, "I and thy company do wait thee to lead us."

But Beltane smiled and shook his head.

"Not so, my lord of Bourne, thou art so cunning in war and hast led us so valiantly and well—shalt lead us to this battle, the which I pray God shall be our last! As for me, this day will I march with the foresters—so mount, my lord."

Hereupon, from foresters, from knights and men-at-arms another shout arose what time Sir Benedict, having knelt to kiss the Duchess Helen's white hand, found it woefully a-tremble.

"Alas, my lady Helen," said he, "methinks thine is the harder part this day. God strengthen thy wifely heart, for God, methinks, shall yet bring him to thine embrace!" So saying, Sir Benedict mounted and rode to the head of his lances, where flew his banner. "Unbar the gates!" he cried. And presently the great gates of Belsaye town swung wide, the portcullis clanked up, the drawbridge fell, and thus afar off they beheld where, 'mid swirling dust-cloud the battle raged fierce and fell.

And behold a sorry wight who hobbled toward them on a crutch, so begirt and bandaged that little was to see of him but bright eyes.

"O Sir Hacon!" cried the Duchess, "did I not bid thee to thy bed?"

"Why truly, dear my lady, but since I may not go forth myself, fain would I see my good comrades ride into the battle—faith, methinks I might yet couch a lance but for fear of this thy noble lady, my lord Beltane—aye me, this shall be a dismal day for me, methinks!"

"Nay, then I will keep thee company, good Sir Hacon!" smiled the Duchess a little tremulously, "shalt watch with me from the bartizan and tell me how the day goeth with us."

And now Sir Benedict lifted aloft his lance, the trumpet sounded, and with ring and tramp he with his six hundred knights and men-at-arms rode forth of the market-square, clattering through the narrow street, thundering over the drawbridge, and, forming in the open, spurred away into the battle.

Then Beltane sighed, and kneeling, kissed his lady's white hands:

"Beloved," spake he low-voiced, "e'en now must I go from thee, but howsoever fortune tend—thine am I through life—aye, and beyond."

"Beltane," she whispered 'twixt quivering lips, "O loved Beltane, take heed to thy dear body, cover thee well with thy shield since thy hurts are my hurts henceforth and with thee thou dost bear my heart—O risk not my heart to death without good cause!" So she bent and kissed him on the brow: but when he would have risen, stayed him. "Wait, my lord!" she whispered and turning, beckoned to one behind her, and lo! Genevra came forward bearing a blue banner.

"My lord," said the Duchess, "behold here thy banner that we have wrought for thee, Genevra and I."

So saying, she took the banner and gave it into Beltane's mailed hand. But as he arose, and while pale-cheeked Genevra, hands clasped upon the green scarf at her bosom, looked wet-eyed where the archers stood ranked, forth stepped Giles and spake quick and eager.

"Lord!" said he, "to-day methinks will be more hard smiting than chance for good archery, wherefore I do pray let me bear thy standard in the fight—ne'er shall foeman touch it whiles that I do live—lord, I pray thee!"

"Be it so, Giles!" So Giles took the banner whiles Beltane fitted on his great, plumed helm; thereafter comes Roger with his shield and Ulf leading his charger whereon he mounted forthwith, and wheeling, put himself at the head of his pikemen and archers, with Roger and Ulf mounted on either flank and Giles bestriding another horse behind.

Yet now needs must he turn to look his last upon the Duchess standing forlorn, and beholding the tender passion of her tearless eyes he yearned mightily to kiss them, and sighed full deep, then, giving the word, rode out and away, the blue standard a-dance upon the breeze; but his heart sank to hear the clash and clang of gate and portcullis, shutting away from him her that was more to him than life itself.

Now when they had gone some way needs must he look back at Belsaye, its battered walls, its mighty towers; and high upon the bartizan he beheld two figures, the one be-swathed in many bandages, and one he knew who prayed for him, even then; and all at once wall and towers and distant figures swam in a mist of tears wherefore he closed his bascinet, yet not before Giles had seen—Giles, whose merry face was grim now and hard-set, and from whose bright bascinet a green veil floated.

"Lord," said he, blinking bright eyes, "we have fought well ere now, but to-day methinks we shall fight as ne'er we fought in all our days."

"Aye," nodded Beltane, "verily, Giles, methinks we shall!"

Thus saying, he turned and looked upon the rolling battle-dust and settling his feet within the stirrups, clenched iron fingers upon his long sword.



CHAPTER LXIX

HOW AT LAST THEY CAME TO PENTAVALON CITY

All day long the din and thunder of battle had roared upon the plain; all day the Duchess Helen with Sir Hacon at her side had watched the eddying dust-clouds rolling now this way, now that, straining anxious eyes to catch the gleam of a white plume or the flutter of the blue banner amid that dark confusion. And oft she heard Sir Hacon mutter oaths half-stifled, and oft Sir Hacon had heard snatches of her breathless prayers as the tide of battle swung to and fro, a desperate fray whence distant shouts and cries mingled in awful din. But now, as the sun grew low, the close-locked fray began to roll southwards fast and ever faster, a mighty storm of eddying dust wherein armour gleamed and steel glimmered back and forth, as Duke Ivo and his proud array fell back and back on their last stronghold of Pentavalon City. Whereupon Sir Hacon, upon the bartizan, cursed no more, but forgetful of his many wounds, waxed jubilant instead.

"Now, by Holy Rood!" he cried, "see, lady—they break—they break! 'Twas that last flanking onset! None but Beltane the Strong could have marshalled that last charge—drawing on Black Ivo to attempt his centre, see you, and crushing in his flanks—so needs must their main battle fall back or meet attack on two sides! Oho, a wondrous crafty leader is Duke Beltane the Strong! See—ha, see now how fast he driveth them—and southward—southward on Pentavalon town!"

"So do I thank God, but see how many—O how many do lie fallen by the way!"

"Why, in battle, most gentle lady, in battle men must needs fall or wherefore should battles be? Much have I seen of wars, lady, but ne'er saw eyes sterner fray than this—"

"And I pray God," spake the Duchess, shivering, "these eyes may ne'er look upon another! O 'tis hateful sight—see—look yonder!" and she pointed where from the awful battle-wrack reeled men faint with wounds while others dragged themselves painfully across the trampled ground.

"Why, 'twas a bloody business!" quoth the knight, shaking his bandaged head.

"Sir Hacon," said the Duchess, frowning and pale, "I pray you summon me the Reeve, yonder." And when the Reeve was come, she spake him very soft and sweet:

"Messire, I pray you let us out and aid the poor, stricken souls yonder."

"But lady, the battle is not yet won—to open our gates were unwise, methinks."

"Good Reeve, one died but lately whom all men loved, but dying, Friar Martin spake these words—'I see Belsaye rich and happy, her gates ever open to the woeful and distressed.' Come, ope the gates and let us out to cherish these afflicted."

Thus presently forth from Belsaye rode the Duchess Helen, with Sir Hacon beside her and many of the townsfolk, hasting pale-cheeked and trembling to minister unto the hurt and dying, and many there were that day who sighed out their lives in blessings on her head.

But meantime the battle roared, fierce and furious as ever, where Black Ivo's stubborn ranks, beset now on three sides, gave back sullenly, fighting step by step.

And amid the blood and dust, in the forefront of that raging tumult, a torn and tattered blue banner rocked and swayed, where Beltane with Giles at his right hand led on his grim foresters, their ranks woefully thinned and with never a horse among them. But Roger was there, his face besmeared with blood that oozed 'neath his dinted bascinet, and Ulf was there, foul with slaughter, and there was Walkyn fierce and grim, while side by side amid the trampling pikemen behind, Jenkyn and Tall Orson fought. And presently to Beltane came Walkyn, pointing eagerly to their left.

"Master," he cried, "yonder flaunteth Pertolepe's banner, beseech thee let us make thitherward—"

"Not so," quoth Beltane, stooping 'neath the swing of a gisarm, "O forget thy selfish vengeance, man, and smite but for Pentavalon this day—her foes be many enow, God wot! Ho!" he roared, "they yield! they yield! Close up pikes—in, in—follow me!" Forward leapt he with Roger beside him and the blue banner close behind, and forward leapt those hardy foresters where the enemy's reeling line strove desperately to stand and re-form. So waxed the fight closer, fiercer; griping hands fumbled at mailed throats and men, locked in desperate grapple, fell and were lost 'neath the press; but forward went the tattered banner, on and on until, checking, it reeled dizzily, dipped, swayed and vanished; but Roger had seen and sprang in with darting point.

"Up, man," he panted, covering the prostrate archer with his shield, "up, Giles, an ye can—we're close beset—"

"But we be here, look'ee Roger—'tis we, look'ee!" cried a voice behind.

"Aye, it do be us!" roared another voice, and Roger's assailants were borne back by a line of vicious-thrusting pikes.

"Art hurt, Giles?"

"Nay," quoth the archer, getting to unsteady legs, "but they've spoiled me Genevra's veil, methinks—and our flag is something smirched, but, as for me, I'll sing ye many a song yet!"

"Then here's twice I've saved thee, Giles, so art two accursed notches from my—"

A mace beat Roger to his knees, but, ere his assailant could strike again, Giles's broadsword rose and fell.

"So are we quits, good Roger!" he cried, "Ha, see—they break! On, pikes, on! Bows and bills, sa-ha!"

Up rose the dust, forward swept the battle as Black Ivo's hosts gave back before the might of Mortain; forward the blue banner reeled and staggered where fought Beltane fierce and untiring, his long shield hacked and dinted, his white plumes shorn away, while ever his hardy foresters smote and thrust on flank and rear. Twice Black Roger fell and twice Giles leapt 'twixt him and death, and perceiving his haggard eyes and the pallor of his grimed and bloody cheek, roared at him in fierce anxiety:

"Fall out, Roger, fall out and rest ye, man!"

"Not whiles I can stand, archer!"

"Art a fool, Roger."

"Belike I am, Giles—"

"And therefore do I love thee, Rogerkin! Ha, bear up man, yonder is water—a muddy brook—"

"O blessed Saint Cuthbert!" panted Roger.

Now before them was a water-brook and beyond this brook Black Ivo's harassed columns made a fierce and desperate rally what time they strove to re-form their hard-pressed ranks; but from Duke Beltane's midmost battle the trumpets brayed fierce and loud, whereat from a thousand parched throats a hoarse cry rose, and chivalry and foot, the men of Mortain charged with levelled lance, with goring pike, with whirling axe and sword, and over and through and beyond the brook the battle raged, sweeping ever southwards.

Presently before them the ground sloped sharply down, and while Beltane shouted warning to those behind, his voice was drowned in sudden trumpet-blast, and glancing to his left, he beheld at last all those knights and men-at-arms who had ridden with his father in their reserve all day—a glittering column, rank on rank, at whose head, his sable armour agleam, his great, white charger leaping 'neath the spur, Duke Beltane rode. Swift and sure the column wheeled and with lances couched thundered down upon Black Ivo's reeling flank.

A crash, a sudden roaring clamour, and where had marched Black Ivo's reserve of archers and pikemen was nought but a scattered rout. But on rode Duke Beltane, his lion banner a-flutter, in and through the enemy's staggering columns, and ever as he charged thus upon their left, so charged Sir Jocelyn upon their right. Then Beltane leaned him on his sword, and looking down upon the battle, bowed his head.

"Now praise be to God and his holy saints!" quoth he, "yonder is victory at last!"

"Aye, master," said Roger hoarsely, "and yonder as the dust clears you shall see the walls and towers of Pentavalon City!"

"And lord—lord," cried Walkyn, "yonder—in their rear—you shall see Red Pertolepe's accursed Raven banner! Why tarry we here, lord? See, their ranks break everywhere—'twill be hot-foot now for the city gates—ha, let us on, master!"

"Aye, verily," quoth Beltane, looking westward, "it groweth to sunset and the city is yet to storm. To your ranks, there—forward!"

Now as they advanced, Beltane beheld at last where, high above embattled walls and towers, rose Pentavalon's mighty keep wherein he had been born; and, remembering his proud and gentle mother, he drooped his head and grieved; and bethinking him of his proud and gentle Helen, he took fresh grip upon his sword, and lengthening his stride, looked where Black Ivo's broken columns, weary with battle, grim with blood and wounds, already began to ride 'neath the city's frowning gateway, while hard upon their straggling rearguard Duke Beltane's lion banner fluttered. A desperate hewing and thrusting in the narrow gateway, and Black Ivo's shattered following were driven in and the narrow streets and alleys of the town full of battle and slaughter. Street by street the town was won until before them loomed the mighty keep of Pentavalon's ducal stronghold. Outer and inner bailey were stormed and so at last came they, a desperate, close-fighting company, into the great tilt-yard before the castle.

Now of a sudden a shout went up and thereafter was a great quiet—a silence wherein friend and foe, panting and weary, stood alike at gaze. And amid this expectant hush the two Dukes of Pentavalon fronted each other. No word said they, but, while all eyes watched them, each took lance and riding to the extremity of the courtyard, wheeled, and couching their lances, spurred fiercely against each other. And now men held their breath to behold these two great knights, who, crouched low in their saddles, met midway in full career with crash and splintering shock of desperate onset. Duke Beltane reeled in his stirrups, recovered, and leaning forward stared down upon his enemy, who, prostrate on his back, slowly lifted gauntleted hand that, falling weakly, clashed upon the stones—a small sound, yet plain to be heard by reason of that breathless hush.

Slow and stiffly Duke Beltane dismounted, and reeling in his gait, came and knelt beside Black Ivo and loosed off his riven helm. Thereafter, slow and painfully, he arose, and looking round upon all men, spake faint-voiced.

"God—hath judged—betwixt us this day!" said he, "and to-day— methinks—He doth summon me—to judgment—" Even as he spake he lifted his hands, struggling with the lacing of his helmet, staggered, and would have fallen, wherefore Beltane sprang forward. Yet one there was quicker than he, one whose goodly armour, smirched and battered, yet showed the blazon of Bourne.

"Benedict!" quoth Duke Beltane feebly, "faithful wert thou to the last! O Benedict, where is my noble son!"

"Father!" cried Beltane, "thou hast this day won Pentavalon from her shame and misery!" But the Duke lay very still in their arms and spake no word.

So, when they had uncovered his white head, they bore him tenderly into the great banqueting hall and laid him on goodly couch and cherished him with water and wine, wherefore, in a while, he opened swooning eyes.

"Beltane!" he whispered, "dear and noble son—thy manhood—hath belike won thy father's soul to God's mercy. So do I leave thee to cherish all those that—have known wrong and woe—by reason of my selfish life! Dear son, bury me with thy—noble mother, but let me lie—at her feet, Beltane. O had I been less selfish—in my sorrow! But God is merciful! Benedict—kiss me—and thou, my Beltane—God calleth me—to rest. In manus tuas—Domine!" Then Duke Beltane, that had been the Hermit Ambrose, clasped his mailed hands and smiling wondrous glad and tender, yielded his soul to God.

In a while Beltane came forth into the courtyard and beheld Sir Jocelyn mustering their knightly prisoners in the ward below, for, with Black Ivo's death, all resistance was ended. And now the trumpets blared, rallying their various companies, but Beltane abode very full of sorrowful thoughts. To him presently cometh Giles yet grasping the blue standard befouled with dust and blood, the which he laid reverently at Beltane's feet.

"Lord," said he, "my trust is ended. See, yonder standeth our company of foresters!" and he pointed where a single rank of grimed and weary men lay upon the hard flag-stones or leaned on their battered weapons.

"Giles—O Giles, is this all?"

"Aye, lord, we muster but seventy and one all told, and of these Tall Orson lieth dead yonder in Jenkyn's arms, and Roger—poor Roger is a-dying, methinks—and Ulf and Walkyn are not."

But even as he spake he turned and started, for, from the ward below a hunting horn brayed feebly.

"'Tis our forester's rally, master!" quoth he, "and see—Jesu, what men are these?" For into the courtyard, followed by many who gaped and stared in wonderment, six men staggered, men hideously stained and besplashed from head to foot, and foremost came two. And Walkyn was one and Ulf the Strong the other.

Now as he came Walkyn stared in strange, wild fashion, and choked often in his breathing, and his mailed feet dragged feebly, insomuch that he would have fallen but for Ulf's mighty arm. Being come where Beltane stood with Sir Benedict and many other wondering knights and nobles, Walkyn halted and strove to speak but choked again instead. In one hand bare he his great axe, and in the other a torn and stained war-cloak.

"Lord," quoth he in sobbing breaths, "a good day for thee—this—lord Duke—a good day for Pentavalon—a joyous day—blessed day for me— You'll mind they slew mother and father and sister, lord—brother and wife and child? Empty-hearted was I and desolate therefore, but—to-day, ha, to-day I die also, methinks. So, an ye will, lord Duke—keep thou mine axe in memory—of Walkyn—'tis a goodly axe—hath served me well today—behold!"

Now as he spake he loosed a corner of the war-cloak, and from its grimed and ghastly folds there rolled forth into the red light of the cleanly sun a thing that trundled softly across the pavement and stopping, shewed a pallid face crowned with red hair, 'neath which upon the brow, betwixt the staring eyes, was a jagged scar like to a cross.

Now while all men stared upon this direful thing, holding their breaths, Walkyn laughed loud and high, and breaking from Ulf's clasp, staggered to where it lay and pointed thereto with shaking finger.

"Behold!" he cried, "behold the head of Bloody Pertolepe!" Therewith he laughed, and strove to kick it with feeble foot—but staggered instead, and, loosing his axe, stretched wide his long arms and fell, face downward.

"Bloody Pertolepe—is dead!" he cried, and choked; and choking—died.



CHAPTER LXX

WHICH SPEAKETH FOR ITSELF

It was not the piping of throstle or sweet-throated merle that had waked my Beltane, who with slumberous eyes stared up at carven canopy, round him upon rich arras, and down upon embroidered bed-covering and silken pillow, while through the narrow lattice the young sun played upon gilded roof-beam and polished floor. So lay Beltane, blinking sleepy eyes and hearkening to a soft and melodious whistling from the little garden below his casement.

Being thus heavy with sleep, he wondered drowsily what great content was this that filled him, and wherefore? Wondering yet, he sighed, and because of the sun's radiance, closed slumberous eyes again and would have slept; but, of a sudden the whistling ceased, and a rich, sweet voice fell to gentle singing.

"Hark! in the whisper of the wind Love calleth thee away, Each leaf a small, soft voice doth find, Each pretty bird doth cry in kind, O heart, haste north to-day."

Beltane sat up broad awake, for Blaen lay to the north, and in Blaen— But Giles was singing on:

"Youth is quick to speed away, But love abideth ever. Fortune, though she smile to-day, Fickle is and will not stay, But true-love changeth never.

"The world doth change, as change it must, But true-love changeth never. Proud ambition is but dust, The bow doth break, the sword doth rust, But love abideth ever."

Beltane was leaning half out of the casement, of the which fact who so unconscious as Giles, busily furbishing armour and bascinet.

"Giles!" he cried, "O Giles—rouse ye, man!"

"How, lord—art awake so early?" questioned Giles, looking up innocent of eye.

"Was it not for this thou didst sing, rogue Giles? Go now, bid Roger have three horses saddled, for within the hour we ride hence."

"To Mortain, lord?" questioned Giles eagerly.

"Aye, Giles, to Mortain—north to Blaen; where else should we ride to-day?"

So saying, Beltane turned back into his sumptuous chamber and fell to donning, not his habiliments of state, but those well-worn garments, all frayed by his heavy mail. Swift dressed he and almost stealthily, oft pausing to glance into the empty garden below, and oft staying to listen to some sound within the massy building. And thus it was he started to hear a soft knocking at the door, and turning, beheld Sir Benedict.

"Forsooth, art up betimes, my lord Duke," quoth he, bright eyes a-twinkle, "and verily I do commend this so great zeal in thee since there be many and divers matters do need thy ducal attention—matters of state and moment—"

"Matters of state?" saith Beltane, something troubled.

"There be many noble and illustrious lords come in to pay thee homage and swear to thee divers fealty oaths—"

"Then must they wait, Benedict."

"Wait, my lord—men so illustrious! Then this day a deputation waiteth on thee, merchants and what not—"

"These must wait also, Benedict—" saith Beltane, his trouble growing.

"Moreover there is high festival at the minster with much chanting and glorification in thy behalf—and 'tis intended to make for thee a triumphal pageant—fair maidens to strow flowers beneath thy horse's feet, musicians to pleasure thee with pipe and tabor—and—"

"Enough, enough, Benedict. Prithee why must I needs endure this?"

"Such things do wait upon success, Beltane, and moreover thou'rt Duke! Aye, verily thou'rt Duke! The which mindeth me that, being Duke, it behoveth thee—"

"And yet, Benedict, I do tell thee that all things must wait awhile, methinks, or better—do you attend them for me—"

"Nay—I am no Duke!" quoth Sir Benedict hastily.

"Yet thou art my chiefest counsellor and lord Seneschal of Pentavalon. So to thy wise judgment I do entrust all matters soever—"

"But I have no warranty, thou cunning boy, and—"

"Shalt have my bond, my ducal ring, nay, the very crown itself, howbeit this day—"

"Wilt ride for Mortain, O lover?" said Sir Benedict, smiling his wry smile.

"Aye, verily, dear Benedict, nor shall aught under heaven let or stay me—yet how knew ye this, Benedict?"

"For that 'tis so my heart would have prompted had I been so blessed as thou art, dear my Beltane. And knowing thou needs must to thy beauteous Helen, I have a meal prepared within my chamber, come your ways and let us eat together."

So came they to a handsome chamber hard by where was spread a goodly repast whereto they did full justice, though talking much the while, until one tapped lightly upon the door, and Roger entered bearing Beltane's new-burnished mail.

"Nay, good Roger," said Beltane, smiling, "need for that is done methinks; we ride light to-day!" But Sir Benedict shook wise head.

"My lord 'tis true our wars be ended I thank God, and we may sheathe our swords at last, but the woods be full of Black Ivo's scattered soldiery, with outlaws and other masterless men."

"Ha, verily, lords," quoth Roger, "there shall many turn outlaw, methinks—"

"Then must we end outlawry!" said Beltane, frowning.

"And how would'st do it, Beltane?"

"Make an end of the game laws, Benedict—throw wide the forests to all who will—"

"But master, thus shall every clapper-claw rogue be free to kill for his base sport thy goodly deer, or belike a hart of ten, fit for sport of kings—"

"Well, let them in this thing be kings. But I do hold a man's life dearer than a stag's. So henceforth in Pentavalon the woods are free—I pray you let this be proclaimed forthwith, my lord."

Quoth Sir Benedict, as with Roger's aid Beltane did on his armour:

"There is a postern beyond the pleasaunce yonder shall bring you forth of the city and no man the wiser."

"Why, then, bring ye the horses thither, Roger, and haste ye!"

Now when Roger was gone, Sir Benedict arose and setting his hands on Beltane's shoulders questioned him full serious:

"Mean ye forsooth to make the forests free, Beltane?"

"Aye, verily, Benedict."

"This shall cause much discontent among the lords—"

"Well, we wear swords, Benedict! But this I swear, whiles I am Duke, never again shall a man hang for killing of my deer. Moreover, 'tis my intent forthwith to lower all taxes, more especially in the market towns, to extend their charters and grant them new privileges."

"Beltane, I fear thy years shall be full of discord."

"What matter, an my people prosper? But thou art older and much wiser than I, Benedict, bethink thee of these things then, I pray, and judge how best such changes may be 'stablished, for a week hence, God willing, I summon my first council. But now, dear Benedict, I go to find my happiness."

"Farewell, my lord—God speed thee, my Beltane! O lad, lad, the heart of Benedict goeth with thee, methinks!" and Sir Benedict turned suddenly away. Then Beltane took and clasped those strong and able hands.

"Benedict," said he, "truer friend man never had than thou, and for this I do love thee—and thou art wise and valiant and great-hearted, and thou didst love my noble mother with a noble love, and for this do I love thee best of all, dear friend."

Then Benedict lifted his head, and like father and son they kissed each other, and together went forth into the sweet, cool-breathing morn.

Beyond the postern were Giles and Black Roger with the horses, and Giles sang blithe beneath his breath, but Roger sighed oft and deep.

Now being mounted, Beltane reined close beside Sir Benedict and smiled full joyous and spake him thus, low-voiced:

"Dear Benedict, to-day one that loveth thee doth ride away, but in a week two that love thee shall return. And needs must these two love thee ever and always, very greatly, Benedict, since but for thee they had not come to their joy." So saying, he touched spur to flank and bounded away, with Giles and Roger spurring behind.

Soon were they free of the city and reaching that rolling down where the battle had raged so lately, Beltane set his horse to a stretching gallop, and away they raced, over upland and lowland until they beheld afar to their right the walls and towers of Belsaye. But on they rode toward the green of the woods, and ever as they rode Giles sang full blithely to himself whiles Roger gloomed and sighed; wherefore at last the archer turned to clap him on the shoulder.

"What aileth thee, my Rogerkin?" quoth he.

"Ha," growled Roger, "the world waggeth well with thee, Giles, these days, but as for me—poor Roger lacketh. Saint Cuthbert knoweth I have striven and likewise plagued him sore upon the matter, and yet my belt—my accursed belt yet beareth a notch—behold!"

"Why, 'tis but a single notch, Roger."

"Yet a notch it is, forsooth, and how shall my heart go light and my soul clean until I have a belt with notches not one?"

"Belike thou hast forgot some of the lives thou didst save, Roger—mine thou didst save four times within the battle, I mind me—"

"Nay, 'twas but twice, Giles."

"Why, then 'twas thrice, Roger—the banner hampered me and—"

"'Twas but twice, alack!" sighed Roger, "Saint Cuthbert knoweth 'twas but twice and being a very watchful saint may not be cheated, Giles."

"Why then, Roger, do ye beset him in prayer, so, while thou dost hold him in play thus, I will snick away thy solitary notch so sweetly he shall never know—"

"Alack, 'twill not avail, Giles. I must needs bear this notch with me unto the grave, belike."

"Nay, Roger, I will to artifice and subtle stratagem on thy behalf as— mark me! I do know a pool beside the way! Now if I slip within the pool and thou should'st pull me from the pool—how then? Ha—'tis well bethought, let's do't!"

"Were it any but Saint Cuthbert!" sighed Roger, "but I do thank thee for thy kindly thought, Giles."

Now after this went they some way in silence, Beltane riding ahead very full of thought, and his companions behind, the one smiling and debonair, the other frowning and sad.

"Forsooth," quoth Giles at last, "as thou sayest, Roger, the world waggeth well with me. Hast heard, belike, our lady Duchess hath been pleased to—"

"Aye, I've heard, my lord Bailiff—who hath not?"

"Nay, I did but mention it to two or three," quoth Giles. "Moreover our lord doth smile on me these days, though forsooth he hath been familiar with me since first I found him within the green—long ere he found thee, Rogerkin! I rode a white ass, I mind me, and my lord walked beside me very fair and soft-spoken, whereupon I called him—Sir Dove! O me—a dove, mark you! Since when, as ye know, we have been comrades, he and I, nay, brothers-in-arms, rather! Very close in his counsels!— very near to all his thoughts and actions. All of the which cometh of possessing a tongue as ready as my wit, Rogerkin!"

Now as he hearkened, Roger's frown grew blacker and his powerful hand clenched upon the bridle.

"And yet," quoth Giles, "as I am in my lord's dear friendship, so art thou in mine, Roger, man, nor in my vaulting fortunes will I e'er forget thee. Belike within Mortain shalt aid me in my new duties, or shall I speak my lord on thy behalf?"

"Ha!" cried Roger suddenly, "first tell me this, my lord Steward and high Bailiff of Mortain, did the Duke my master chance ever to take thy hand, to wet it with his tears and—kiss it?"

"Art mad, Roger! Wherefore should my lord do this?"

"Aye," nodded Roger, "wherefore?"

And when Giles had whistled awhile and Roger had scowled awhile, the archer spake again:

"Hast never been in love, Roger?"

"Never, Saint Cuthbert be praised!"

"Then canst know nought of the joy and wonder of it. So will I make for thee a song of love, as thus: open thine ears and hearken:

"So fair, so sweet, so pure is she I do thank God; Her love an armour is to me 'Gainst sorrow and adversity, So in my song right joyfully I do thank God for love.

"Her love a cloak is, round me cast, I do thank God; To cherish me 'gainst fortunes blast. Her love, forgetting evils past, Shall lift me up to heaven at last, So I thank God for love."

"Here is a fair song, methinks; dost not wonder at love now, Roger, and the glory of it?"

"I wonder," quoth Roger, "how long thou shalt believe all this when thou art wed. I wonder how long thou wilt live true to her when she is thy wife!"

Now hereupon the archer's comely face grew red, grew pale, his bronzed hands flew to his belt and leapt on high, gripping his dagger; but Roger had seen, his fingers closed on the descending wrist and they grappled, swaying in their saddles.

Grim and silent they slipped to earth and strove together on the ling. But Roger had Giles in a cruel wrestling-hold, wrenched him, bent him, and bearing him to earth, wrested away the dagger and raised it above the archer's naked throat. And Giles, lying powerless beneath, looked up into Roger's fierce scowling face and seeing no pity there, his pale cheek grew paler and in his eyes came an agony of broken hopes; but his gaze quailed not and when he spake, his voice was firm.

"Strike true, comrade!" said he.

The hand above him wavered; the dagger was dashed aside and covering his face, Black Roger crouched there, his broad shoulders and powerful figure quaking and shivering. Then Giles arose and stepping to his dagger, came back with it grasped in his hand.

"Roger!" said he.

Quoth Roger, his face still hidden:

"My throat is bare also, archer!"

"Roger—comrade, give to me thy belt!"

Now at this Roger looked up, wondering.

"My belt?" quoth he, "what would ye, Giles?"

"Cut away thy last notch, Roger—thy belt shall go smooth-edged henceforth and thy soul clean, methinks."

"But I meant to slay thee, Giles."

"But spared me, Roger, spared me to life and—love, my Rogerkin. O friend, give me thy belt!"

So Roger gave him the belt, wherefrom Giles forthwith cut the last notch, which done, they together, like mischievous lads, turned to look where their lord rode far ahead; and beholding him all unconscious and lost in thought, they sighed their relief and mounting, went on together.

Now did Roger oft glance at Giles who kept his face averted and held his peace, whereat Roger grew uneasy, fidgeted in his saddle, fumbled with the reins, and at last spake:

"Giles!"

"Aye, Roger!"

"Forgive me!"

But Giles neither turned nor spake, wherefore contrite Roger must needs set an arm about him and turn him about, and behold, the archer's eyes were brimming with great tears!

"O Giles!" gasped Roger, "O Giles!"

"Roger, I—I do love her, man—I do love her, heart and soul! Is this so hard to believe, Roger, or dost think me rogue so base that true love is beyond me? 'Tis true I am unworthy, and yet—I do verily love her, Roger!"

"Wilt forgive me—can'st forgive me, Giles?"

"Aye, Roger, for truly we have saved each other's lives so oft we must needs be friends, thou and I. Only thy words did—did hurt me, friend— for indeed this love of mine hath in it much of heaven, Roger. And— there be times when I do dream of mayhap—teaching—a little Giles—to loose a straight shaft—some day. O sweet Jesu, make me worthy, amen!"

And now Beltane glancing up and finding the sun high, summoned Giles and Roger beside him.

"Friends," said he, "we have journeyed farther than methought. Now let us turn into the boskage yonder and eat."

So in a while, the horses tethered, behold them within a leafy bower eating and drinking and laughing like the blithe foresters they were, until, their hunger assuaged, they made ready to mount. But of a sudden the bushes parted near by and a man stepped forth; a small man he, plump and buxom, whose quick, bright eyes twinkled 'neath his wide-eaved hat as he saluted Beltane with obeisance very humble and lowly. Quoth he:

"Right noble and most resplendent lord Duke Beltane, I do most humbly greet thee, I—Lubbo Fitz-Lubbin, past Pardoner of the Holy See—who but a poor plain soul am, do offer thee my very insignificant, yet most sincere, felicitous good wishes."

"My thanks are thine. Pardoner. What more would you?"

"Breath, lord methinks," said Giles, "wind, my lord, after periods so profound and sonorous!"

"Lord Duke, right puissant and most potential, I would but tell thee this, to wit, that I did keep faith with thee, that I, by means of this unworthy hand, did set thee beyond care, lift thee above sorrow, and gave to thee the heaven of thy most warm and earnest desires."

"How mean you, Pardoner?"

"Lord Duke, when thou didst bestow life on two poor rogues upon a time, when one rogue stole away minded to betray thee to thine enemy, the second rogue did steal upon the first rogue, and this second rogue bare a small knife whereof the first rogue suddenly died. And thus Duke Ivo, thine enemy, came not before Belsaye until thou and thy company were safe within its walls. So by reason of this poor second rogue, Pentavalon doth rejoice in freedom. To-day is singing on every village green—happiness is in the very air, for 'tis Pentavalon's Beltane, and Beltane is a sweet season; so doth this poor second rogue find him recompense. Verily art well named, lord Beltane, since in thee Pentavalon's winter is passed away and spring is come—O happy season of Beltane, O season of new beginnings and new hopes! So, my lord Beltane, may it ever be Beltane with thee, may it be sweet spring ever within thy noble heart. God keep thee and farewell."

So saying the Pardoner turned about, and plunging into the dense green, was gone.

"A pestilent wordy fellow, lord," quoth Giles, "one of your windy talkers that talketh that no other talker may talk—now give me a good listener, say I."

"And yet," said Beltane, swinging to saddle, "spake he truly I wonder? Had Ivo been a little sooner we had not been here, methinks!"

On they rode, through sun and shadow, knee and knee, beneath leafy arches and along green glades, talking and laughing together or plunged in happy thought.

Quoth Beltane of a sudden:

"Roger, hast heard how Giles waxeth in fortune these days?"

"And methinks no man is more worthy, master. Giles is for sure a man of parts."

"Aye—more especially of tongue, Roger."

"As when he did curse the folk of Belsaye out o' their fears, master. Moreover he is a notable archer and—"

"Art not envious, then, Roger?"

"Not I, master!"

"What would'st that I give unto thee?"

"Thy love, master."

"'Tis thine already, my faithful Roger."

"And therewithal am I content, master."

"Seek ye nought beside?"

"Lord, what is there? Moreover I am not learned like Giles, nor ready of tongue, nor—"

"Art wondrous skilled in wood-lore, my Rogerkin!" quoth Giles. "Forsooth, lord, there is no man knoweth more of forestry than my good comrade Roger!"

"So will I make of him my chiefest huntsman, Giles—"

"Master—O master!" gasped Roger.

"And set thee over all my foresters of Pentavalon, Roger."

"Why master, I—forsooth I do love the greenwood—but lord, I am only Roger, and—and how may I thank thee—"

"Come!" cried Beltane, and spurred to a gallop.

Thus rode they through the leafy by-ways, avoiding town and village; yet oft from afar they heard the joyous throb of bells upon the air, or the sound of merry voices and happy laughter from village commons where folk rejoiced together that Ivo's iron yoke was lifted from them at last. But Beltane kept ever to the woods and by-ways, lest, being recognised, he should be stayed longer from her of whom he dreamed, bethinking him ever of the deep, shy passion of her eyes, the soft tones of her voice, the clinging warmth of her caress, and all the sweet, warm beauty of her. Betimes they crossed the marches into Mortain, but it was late evening ere they saw at last the sleepy manor of Blaen, its white walls and steepy roofs dominated by its one square watch-tower, above which a standard, stirring lazily in the gentle air, discovered the red lion of Pentavalon.

And now Beltane's breath grew short and thick, his strong hand trembled on the bridle, and he grew alternate hot and cold. So rode they into the echoing courtyard whither hasted old Godric to welcome them, and divers servants to take their horses. Being ushered forthwith into the garden, now who so silent and awkward as my Beltane, what time his lady Duchess made known to him her gentle ladies, among whom sweet Genevra, flushed of cheek, gazed breathless upon Giles even as Giles gazed upon her—who so mumchance as Beltane, I say, who saw and heard and was conscious only of one among them all. And who so stately, so calm-voiced and dignified as this one until—aye, until they stood alone together, and then—

To see her sway to his fierce arms, all clinging, yearning womanhood, her state and dignity forgotten quite! To hear her voice soft and low and all a-thrill with love, broken with sighs and sinking to passionate-whispered questioning:

"And thou art come back to me at last. Beltane! Hast brought to me my heart unharmed from the battle, beloved! And thou didst take no hurt— no hurt, my Beltane? And art glad to see—thy—wife, Beltane? And dost love me—as much as ever, Beltane? O wilt never, never leave me desolate again, my lord—art thou mine—mine henceforth as I am thine, Beltane? And wilt desire me ever near thee, my lord?"

"Helen," said he, "O my 'Helen the Beautiful'—our wars be ended, our time of waiting is done, I thank God! So am I here to claim thee, beloved. Art glad to be in mine arms—glad I am come to—make thee mine own at last, Helen?"

"I had died without thee, Beltane—I would not live without thee now, my Beltane. See, my lord, I—O how may I speak if thus you seal my lips, Beltane? And prithee how may I show thee this gown I wear for thee if thou wilt hold me so—so very close, Beltane?"

And in a while as the moon rose she brought him into that bower he well remembered and bade him admire the beauty of her many flowers, and he, viewing her loveliness alway, praised the flowers exceeding much yet beheld them not at all, wherefore she chid him, and yet chiding, yielded him her scarlet mouth. Thus walked they in the fragrant garden until Genevra found them and sweet-voiced bid them in to sup. But the Duchess took Genevra's slender hands and looked within her shy, sweet eyes.

"Art happy, sweet maid?" she questioned.

"O dear my lady, methinks in all this big world is none more happy than thy grateful Genevra."

"Then haste thee back to thy happiness, dear Genevra, to-morrow we will see thee wed."

And presently came they within a small chamber and here Beltane did off his armour, and here they supped together, though now the lady Helen spake little and ate less, and oft her swift-flushing cheek rebuked the worshipping passion of his eyes; insomuch that presently she arose and going into the great chamber beyond, came back, and kneeling at his feet, showed him a file.

"Beltane," said she, "thou didst, upon a time, tell poor Fidelis wherefore thy shameful fetters yet bound thy wrists—so now will thy wife loose them from thee."

Then, while Beltane, speaking not, watched her downbent head and busy hands, she filed off his fetters one by one, and kissing them, set them aside.

But when she would have risen he prevented her, and with reverent fingers touched the coiled and braided glory of her hair.

"O Helen," he whispered, "loose me down thy hair."

"Nay, dear Beltane—"

"My hands are so big and clumsy—"

"Thy hands are my hands!" and she caught and kissed them.

"Let down for me thy hair, beloved, I pray thee!"

"Forsooth my lord and so I will—but—not yet."

"But the—the hour groweth late, Helen!"

"Nay—indeed—'tis early yet, my lord—nay, as thou wilt, my Beltane, only suffer that I—I leave thee a while, I pray."

"Must I bide here alone, sweet wife?"

"But indeed I will—call thee anon, my lord."

"Nay, first—look at me, my Helen!"

Slowly, slowly she lifted her head and looked on him all sweet and languorous-eyed.

"Aye, truly—truly thine eyes are not—a nun's eyes, Helen. So will I wait thy bidding." So he loosed her and she, looking on him no more, turned and hasted into the further chamber.

And after some while she called to him very soft and sweet, and he, trembling, arose and entered the chamber, dim-lighted and fragrant.

But now, beholding wherefore she had left him, his breath caught and he stood as one entranced, nor moved, nor spake he a while.

"O Helen!" he murmured at last, "thou art glorious so—and with thy long hair—"

But now, even as he came to her, the Duchess Helen put out the little silver lamp. But in the moonlit dusk she gave her lips to his, and her tender arms were close about him.

"Beltane," she whispered 'neath his kiss, "dear my lord and husband, here is an end at last of sorrow and heart-break, I pray."

"Here—my Helen, beginneth—the fulness of life, methinks!"

Now presently upon the stillness, from the court below, stole the notes of a lute and therewith a rich voice upraised in singing:

"O when is the time a maid to kiss? Tell me this, now tell me this. 'Tis when the day is scarce begun, 'Tis from the setting of the sun. Is time for kissing ever done, Tell me this, now tell me this."

THE END