Quoth Beltane, staring:

"Now what aileth the maid, think ye? But 'tis no matter—we are well quit of her, meseemeth." So saying, he turned to behold Roger flat upon his belly and with his ear to the ground.

"Master," cried he, "master, there be horsemen i' the forest hereabouts—a great company!"

"Why then, do you mount, Roger, and hie thee with Sir Fidelis hot-foot to Walkyn at Hundleby Fen. Bid him set our bowmen in every place of vantage, and let every man stand to arms. So mayhap, Roger, will we this day make hunted men of them that hunt!" So saying, Beltane swung to saddle.

"Aye—aye—but what o' thee, master?"

"Mark ye this horse, Roger. Thou hast said 'twas of good speed and endurance, and methinks 'tis sooth. Howbeit, now shall he prove thy word, for here I wait the hunters, and to-day will I, keeping ever out of bow-shot, lead them through every quag, every bog and marsh 'twixt here and Hundleby Fen, and of those that follow still, thou and Walkyn and our merry men shall make an end, I pray God. So let all lie well hid, and watch for my coming. And now—farewell to thee, Roger."

"But, master," quoth Roger, waxing rueful, "in this thou must run dire perils and dangers, and I not with thee. So pray thee let Sir Fidelis— hard!—Ha!—now God aid us—hark to that! Master, they've loosed the dogs on us!"

Even as he spake, very faint and far as yet but plain to hear above the leafy stirring, the deep baying of a hound came down the wind.

"Hunting-dogs, master! Ride—ride!" quoth Roger, wiping sweat from him, "O sweet Christ forgive me, for I have hunted down poor rogues with such ere now—"

"Forsooth, Roger, and now is their turn to hunt thee, mayhap. Howbeit, ride you at speed, and you, sir knight also, get you gone, and whatsoever betide, Roger, wait you at Hundleby Fen for me. Go—obey me!" So, looking upon Beltane with eyes of yearning, Black Roger perforce wheeled and rode out into the glade, and striking spurs to his eager steed, galloped swiftly away. Now turned Beltane upon Sir Fidelis:

"How, messire—are ye not gone?"

Then answered Sir Fidelis, his drooping head averted:

"Thou seest, my lord—I go beside thee according to thy word—"

"Presumptuous youth, I want thee not!"

"The day will yet come, perchance, my lord—and I can be patient—"

"Ha—dost defy me?"

"Not so, my lord—nor do I fear thee. For I do know thee better than thyself, so do I pity thee—pity thee—thou that art so mighty and yet so weak. Thou art a babe weeping in a place of shadows, so will I go beside thee in the dark to soothe and comfort thee. Thou art a noble man, thy better self lost awhile 'neath sickly fancies—God send they soon may pass. Till then I can be very patient, my lord Beltane."

Now did Beltane stare with eyes of wonder upon Sir Fidelis who managed his fretting charger with a gracious ease, yet held his face ever averted. While, upon the stilly air, loud and more loud rose the fierce baying of the hounds.

Said Beltane at last:

"Messire, thou dost hear the hounds?"

"In faith, my lord, I tremble to be gone, but an thou dost tarry, so must I."

"Death shall follow hard after us this day, Sir Fidelis."

"Why then, an death o'ertake us—I must die, messire."

"Ha,—the hounds have winded us already, methinks! Hark!—Hark to them!" And in truth the air was full of their raving clamour, with, ever and anon, the shouts and cries of those that urged them on.

"Hast a noble horse, Sir Fidelis. Now God send he bear thee well this day, for 'twill be hard and cruel going. Come—'tis time, methinks!"

Thus speaking, Beltane gave his horse the rein and forth they rode together out into the broad and open glade, their armour glinting in the sun; and immediately the dogs gave tongue, louder, fiercer than before. Now looking back. Beltane beheld afar many mounted men who shouted amain, flourishing lance and sword, while divers others let slip the great dogs they held in leash; then, looking up the glade ahead, and noting its smooth level and goodly length, Beltane smiled grimly and drew sword. "Sir Fidelis," said he, "hast a mace at thy saddle-bow: betake thee to it, 'tis a goodly weapon, and—smite hard. 'Twill be the dogs first. Now—spur!"

Forward bounded the two high-mettled steeds, gathering pace with every stride, but the great hounds came on amain, while beyond, distant as yet, the hunters rode—knight and squire, mounted bowman and man-at-arms they spurred and shouted, filling the air with fierce halloo. Slowly the hounds drew nearer—ten great beasts Beltane counted—that galloped two and two, whining and whimpering as they came.

Now of a sudden Beltane checked in his career, swerved, swung the plunging roan, and with long blade agleam, rode in upon the racing pack to meet their rush with deadly point and deep-biting edge; a slavering hound launched itself at his throat, its fangs clashing on the stout links of his camail, but as the great beast hung thus, striving to drag him from the saddle, down came the mace of Sir Fidelis and the snarling beast fell to be crushed 'neath the trampling hoofs of the war-horse Mars. And now did the mighty roan prove himself a very Mars indeed, for, beset round about by fierce, lean shapes that crouched and leapt with cruel, gleaming fangs, he stamped and reared and fought them off, neighing loud defiance. Thus, with lashing hoof, with whirling mace and darting sword fought they, until of the hounds there none remained save three that limped painfully to cover, licking their hurts as they went.

But other foes were near, for as Beltane reined his snorting steed about, he swayed in his stirrups 'neath the shock of a cross-bow bolt that glanced, whirring, from his bascinet, and in that moment Sir Fidelis cried aloud:

"My lord, my lord! alas, my poor horse is death-smitten!" Glancing round. Beltane beheld Sir Fidelis slip to earth as his charger, rearing high, crashed over, his throat transfixed by a cloth-yard shaft. Now did their many pursuers shout amain, fierce and joyful, goading their horses to swifter pace what time Beltane frowned from them to Sir Fidelis, who stood, mailed hands tight-clasped, watching Beltane eager and great-eyed.

"Ah!" cried Beltane, smiting hand to thigh in bitter anger, "now is my hope of ambush and surprise like to be marred by reason of thee, sir knight, for one horse may never carry us twain!"

"Why then, I can die here, my lord, an it be so thy will!" spake Sir Fidelis, his pale lips a tremble, "yet is thy horse strong and—O in sooth I did yearn—for life. But, an thou wilt give me death—"

"Come!" cried Beltane hoarsely. "Come, wherefore tarry ye?"

Now leapt Sir Fidelis to the saddle of his fallen steed and snatched thence a wallet, whereat Beltane fell a-fuming, for bolts and arrows began to whirr and hum thick and fast. "Come—mount, sir knight—mount ye up behind me. Thy hand—quick! thy foot on my foot—so! Now set thy two arms fast about me and see thou loose me not, for now must we ride for the wild—brush and thicket, stock and stone, nought must let or stay us—so loose me not, sir knight!"

"Ah—not while life remain, messire Beltane!" said the young knight quick-breathing, and speaking, took Beltane within two mailed arms that clasped and clung full close. Then, wheeling sharp about, Beltane stooping low, struck sudden spurs and they plunged, crashing, into the denser green.



CHAPTER XLI

HOW THEY RODE INTO THE WILDERNESS

Fast galloped the good horse, bursting through underbrush and thicket with the roar of the pursuit following ever distant and more distant; and ever Beltane spurred deeper into those trackless wilds where few dare adventure them by reason of evil spirits that do haunt these solitudes (as they do say) and, moreover, of ravening beasts.

Strongly and well the good horse bore them, what time the sun waxed fierce and hot, filling the woods with a stifling heat, a close, windless air dank and heavy with the scent of leaves and bracken. The hue and cry had sunk long since, lost in distance, and nought broke the brooding silence but the stir of their going, as, checking their headlong pace, Beltane brought the powerful animal to slow and leisured gait. And presently, a gentle wind arose, that came and went, to fan brow and cheek and temper the sun's heat.

And now, as they rode through sunlight and shadow, Beltane felt his black mood slowly lifted from him and knew a sense of rest, a content unfelt this many a day; he looked, glad-eyed, upon the beauty of the world about him, from green earth to an azure heaven peeping through a fretted screen of branches; he marked the graceful, slender bracken stirring to the soft-breathing air, the mighty boles of stately trees that reached out sinuous boughs one to another, to touch and twine together amid a mystery of murmuring leaves. All this he saw, yet heeded not at all the round-mailed arms that clasped him in their soft embrace, nor the slender hands that held upon his girdle.

So rode they through bosky dell and dingle, until the sun, having climbed the meridian, sank slowly westwards; and Sir Fidelis spake soft-voiced:

"Think you we are safe at last, my lord?"

"Fidelis," saith Beltane, "Yest're'en did'st thou name me selfish, to-day, a babe, and, moreover, by thy disobedience hast made my schemes of no avail—thus am I wroth with thee."

"Yet doth the sun shine, my lord," said Sir Fidelis, small of voice.

"Ha—think you my anger so light a thing, forsooth?"

"Messire, I think of it not at all."

"By thy evil conduct are we fugitives in the wilderness!"

"Yet is it a wondrous fair place, messire, and we unharmed—which is well, and we are—together, which is—also well."

"And with but one beast to bear us twain!"

"Yet he beareth us strong and nobly, messire!"

"Fidelis, I would I ne'er had seen thee."

"Thou dost not see me—now, lord—content you, therefore," saith Fidelis softly, whereat Beltane must needs twist in the saddle, yet saw no more than a mailed arm and shoulder.

"Howbeit," quoth Beltane, "I would these arms o' thine clasped the middle of any other man than I."

"Forsooth, my lord? And do they crush thee so? Or is it thou dost pine for solitude?"

"Neither, youth: 'tis for thy youth's sake, for, though thou hast angered me full oft, art but a very youth—"

"Gramercy for my so much youthfulness, my lord. Methinks I shall be full long a-growing old—"

"Heed me, sir knight, 'tis a fell place this, where direful beasts do raven—"

"Nathless, messire, my youthfulness is but where it would be—"

"Aye, forsooth, and there it is! Where thou would'st be—thou, forsooth! Art indeed a wilful youth and very headstrong. And wherefore here?"

"To cheer thee in thy loneliness, my lord."

"How so?"

"Thou shalt reproach me for my youth and quarrel with me when thou wilt!"

"Am I of so ill humour, indeed?"

"Look within thyself, my lord."

Now here they rode a while in silence; but presently Beltane turned him again in the saddle and saw again only arm and shoulder. Quoth he:

"Fidelis, art a strange youth and a valiant—and yet, thy voice—thy voice hath betimes a—a something I love not—a note of softness that mindeth me of bitter days."

"Then heed it not, my lord; 'tis but that I grow a-weary, belike."

Here silence again, what time Beltane fell to frowning and Sir Fidelis, head a-slant, to watching him furtive-eyed, yet with lips that curved to wistful smile.

"Came you in sooth from—the Duchess Helen, Fidelis?"

"In truth, my lord."

"Dost love her—also?"

"Aye, my lord—also!"

"Then alas for thee, poor youthful fool, 'twere better I had left thee to thy death, methinks, for she—this wilful Helen—"

"My lord," cried Sir Fidelis, "nought will I hear to her defame!"

"Fidelis, art a gentle knight—but very young, art fond and foolish, so, loving this light lady, art doubly fool!"

"Wherein," saith Fidelis, "wherein, my lord, thou art likewise fool, meseemeth."

"Verily," nodded Beltane, "O verily fool am I, yet wise in this—that I do know my folly. So I, a fool, would counsel thee in thy folly thus— give not thy heart to Helen's faithless keeping—stoop not to her wanton lure—ha! what now?" For, lithe and swift, Sir Fidelis had sprung to earth and had seized the great roan's bridle, and checking him in his stride, faced Beltane with cheeks suffused and flaming eyes.

"Shame, messire—O shame!" he cried. "How vile is he that would, with lying tongue, smirch the spotless honour of any maid. And, as to Helen, I do name thee liar!—liar!"

"Would'st quarrel with me in matter so unworthy?"

"Enough!" quoth Fidelis, "unworthy art thou to take her name within thy lips—enough!" So saying Sir Fidelis stepped back a pace and drew his sword.

Now Beltane, yet astride the mighty roan that snuffed the fragrant air and stooped to crop the tender herbage, looked upon the youthful paladin 'neath wrinkled brow, and pulled his lip as one in doubt. Anon he sighed and therewith smiled and shook his head.

Quoth he:

"O Fidelis, now do I see that I must needs love thee some day. Fidelis, art a fool, but a right sweet fool, so do I humbly sue thy foolish pardon, and, as to Helen, may she prove worthy thy sweet faith and I thy love and friendship. So, fair knight, put up thy sword—come, mount and let us on. Sir Mars, methinks, doth snuff water afar, and I do yearn me for the cool of it."

So in a while they rode on again, yet presently Sir Fidelis, meek-voiced, preferred a sudden question, thus:

"Lord, fain would I know why thou dost contemn her so—"

"Nay," sighed Beltane, "here is a tale un-meet thy tender years. Speak we of other things—as thus, wherefore didst keep our lives in jeopardy to bring away the wallet that cumbereth thy hip?"

"For that within doth lie, first—our supper—"

"O foolish youth, these woods do teem with food!"

"A neat's tongue, delicately seasoned—"

"O!" said Beltane.

"'Twixt manchets of fair white bread—"

"Ah!" said Beltane.

"With a small skin of rare wine—"

"Enough!" quoth Beltane. "These be things forsooth worth a little risk. Now do I thirst and famish, yet knew it not."

"An thou wilt eat, my lord?"

"Nay, first will we find some freshet where we may bathe awhile. Ha, to plunge naked within some sweet pool—'tis a sweet thought, Fidelis?"

But hereupon the young knight made answer none and fell into a reverie and Beltane also, what time they rode by murmuring rills, through swampy hollows, past brake and briar, until, as evening began to fall, they came unto a broad, slow-moving stream whose waters, aglow with sunset glory, split asunder the greeny gloom of trees, most pleasant to behold. Then, sighing for very gladness, Beltane checked his horse and spake right gleefully:

"Light down, light down, good Fidelis; ne'er saw I fairer haven for wearied travellers! We have ridden hard and far, so here will we tarry the night!" and down to earth he sprang, to stride up and down and stretch his cramped limbs, the while Sir Fidelis, loosing off the great, high-peaked saddle, led the foam-flecked war-horse down to the water.

Now because of the heat, Beltane laid by his bascinet, and, hearkening to the soft, cool ripple of the water, he straightway unbuckled his sword-belt and began to doff his heavy hauberk; perceiving the which, cometh Sir Fidelis to him something hastily.

"What do you, messire?" he questioned.

"Do, Fidelis? Forsooth, I would bathe me in yon cool, sweet water—list how it murmureth 'neath the bank yonder. Come then, strip as I do, youth, strip and let us swim together—pray you aid me with this lacing."

"My lord, I—indeed, I do think it unsafe—"

"Unsafe, boy?"

"An our foes should come upon us—"

"O content you," quoth Beltane, stooping to loose off his spurs, "our foes were lost hours since, nor shall any find us here in the wild, methinks—pray you, loose me this buckle. Come, list how the waters do woo us with their pretty babble."

"But, messire," quoth Fidelis, faint-voiced, and fumbling awkwardly with the buckle, "indeed I—I have no art in swimming."

"Then will I teach thee."

"Nay," spake the young knight hastily, his trouble growing, "I do dread the water!"

"Well, there be shallows 'neath the alders yonder."

"Aye, but the shallows will be muddy, and I—"

"Muddy?" cried Beltane, pausing with his hauberk half on, half off, to stare at Sir Fidelis in amaze, "muddy, forsooth! Art a dainty youth in faith, and over-nice, methinks. What matter for a little honest mud, prithee?"

"Why 'tis mud! And slimy under foot! And I love not mud! So will I none of the shallows!"

"Then verily must I chide thee, Fidelis, for—"

"Then verily will I unto yon boskage, messire, to prepare us a fire 'gainst the 'beasts that raven,' and our bracken beds. Howbeit, bathe me I—will—not, messire!"

"O luxurious youth, then will I, and shame thy nice luxuriousness!" quoth Beltane; and off came hauberk and quilted gambeson and away skipped Sir Fidelis into the green.

So, presently, Beltane plunged him into the stream, and swimming with powerful strokes, felt his youth and strength redoubled thereby, and rejoiced to be alive. Thereafter he leapt ashore, his blood aglow with ardent life, and, as he clothed him, felt a great and mighty hunger.

But scarce had he donned chausses and gambeson than he heard an outcry and sudden clamour within the green; whereupon, staying not for his armour, he caught up his sword and, unsheathing it as he ran, plunged in among the trees and there espied Sir Fidelis stoutly withstanding three foul knaves unwashed and ragged. Then shouted Beltane, and fell upon them right joyously and smote them gleefully and laughed to see them reel and scatter before his sudden onset; whereon, beholding Sir Fidelis pale and scant of breath, he stayed to clap him on the shoulder.

"Blithely done, good Fidelis!" quoth he. "Rest thee awhile and catch thy wind, for fain am I to try a bout with yon tall rogues!" So saying, he advanced upon the scowling three, his eyes a-dance, his nimble feet light-poised for swift action—for lusty rogues were these, who, seeing him alone, forthwith met him point and edge, besetting him with many swashing blows, that, whistling, did but cleave the empty air or rang loud upon his swift-opposing blade. So hewed they, and smote amain until their brows shone moist and their breaths waxed short; whereat Beltane mocked them, saying:

"Ha—sweat ye, forsooth? Do ye puff so soon? This cometh of foul eating and fouler life. Off—off! ye beefy do-nothings! An ye would be worthy fighters, eat less and bathe ye more!" Then Beltane laid on with the flat of his heavy sword and soundly belaboured these hard-breathing knaves, insomuch that one, hard-smitten on the crown, stumbled and fell, whereupon his comrades, to save their bones, leapt forthwith a-down the steepy bank and, plunging into the stream, made across to the farther side, splashing prodigiously, and cursing consumedly, for the water they liked not at all.

Now as Beltane leaned him on his sword, watching their flounderings joyful-eyed, the weapon was dashed from his loosened hold, he staggered 'neath the bite of vicious steel, and, starting round, beheld the third rogue, his deadly sword swung high; but even as the blow fell, Sir Fidelis sprang between and took it upon his own slender body, and, staggering aside, fell, and lay with arms wide-tossed. Then, whiles the robber yet stared upon his sword, shivered by the blow, Beltane leapt, and ere he could flee, caught him about the loins, and whirling him aloft, dashed him out into the stream. Then, kneeling by Sir Fidelis, he took his heavy head upon his arm and beheld his cheeks pale and wan, his eyes fast shut, and saw his shining bascinet scored and deep-dinted by the blow.

"Fidelis!" he groaned, "O my brave Fidelis, and art thou slain—for my sake?" But in a while, what time Beltane kneeled and mourned over him full sore, the young knight stirred feebly, sighed, and spake.

"Beltane!" he whispered; and again, "Beltane!" Anon his white lids quivered, and, opening swooning eyes he spake again with voice grown stronger:

"My lord—my lord—what of thy wound?"

And lo! the voice was sweet to hear as note of merle or mavis; these eyes were long and deeply blue beneath their heavy lashes; eyes that looked up, brimful of tenderness, ere they closed slow and wearily; eyes so much at odds with grim bascinet and close-laced camail that Beltane must needs start and hold his breath and fall to sudden trembling what time Sir Fidelis lay there, pale and motionless, as one that is dead. Now great fear came upon Beltane, and he would have uttered desperate prayers, but could not; trembling yet, full gently he drew his arm from under that drooping head, and, stealing soft-footed to the river's marge, stood there staring down at the rippling waters, and his heart was rent with conflicting passions—amazement, fear, anger, joy, and a black despair. And of a sudden Beltane fell upon his knees and bowed him low and lower until his burning brow was hid in the cool, sweet grass—for of these passions, fiercest, strongest, wildest, was—despair.



CHAPTER XLII

HOW BELTANE DREAMED IN THE WILD-WOOD

Now in a while, he started to feel a hand among his hair, and the hand was wondrous light and very gentle; wherefore, wondering, he raised his head, but behold, the sun was gone and the shadows deepening to night. Yet even so, he stared and thrilled 'twixt wonder and fear to see Sir Fidelis bending over him.

"Fidelis!" he murmured, "and is it thee in truth,—or do I dream?"

"Dear my lord, 'tis I indeed. How long hast lain thus? I did but now wake from my swoon. Is it thy hurt?—suffer me to look."

"Nay, 'tis of none account, but I did dream thee—dead—Fidelis!"

"Ah, messire, thy hurt bleedeth apace—the steel hath gone deep! Sit you thus, thy back against the tree—so. Within my wallet I have a salve—wait you here." So, whiles Beltane stared dreamily upon the twilit river, Sir Fidelis hasted up the bank and was back again, the wallet by his side, whence he took a phial and goblet and mixed therein a draught which dreamy Beltane perforce must swallow, and thereafter the dreamy languor fell from him, what time Sir Fidelis fell to bathing and bandaging the ugly gash that showed beneath his knee. Now as he watched these busy, skilful fingers he knew a sudden, uneasy qualm, and forthwith spake his thought aloud:

"Thy hands are wondrous—small and slender, Sir Fidelis!"

"Belike, messire, they shall grow bigger some day."

"Yet are they wondrous fair—and soft—and white, Fidelis!"

"Mayhap, messire, they shall grow rough and brown and hairy anon—so content you."

"Yet wherefore are they so soft, Fidelis, and so—maid-like? And wherefore—"

"See you, my lord, thus must the bandage lie, fast-knotted—so. Nor must it slacken, lest the bleeding start afresh." So saying, Sir Fidelis arose, and taking the wallet in one hand and setting the other 'neath Beltane's arm, led him to where, deep-bowered under screening willows, a fire burned cheerily, whereby were two beds of scented bracken.

Dark and darker the shadows crept down, deepening to a night soft and warm and very still, whose quietude was unbroken save for the drowsy lap and murmur of the river and the sound the war-horse Mars made as he cropped the grass near by. Full of a languorous content lay Beltane, despite the smarting of his wound, what time Sir Fidelis came and went about the fire; and there, within this great and silent wilderness, they supped together, and, while they supped, Beltane looked oft upon Sir Fidelis, heedful of every trick of mail-girt feature and gesture of graceful hand as he ne'er had been ere now. Wherefore Sir Fidelis grew red, grew pale, was by turns talkative and silent, and was fain to withdraw into the shadows beyond the fire. And from there, seeing Beltane silent and full of thought, grew bold to question him.

"Dost meditate our course to-morrow, my lord Beltane?"

"Nay—I do but think—a strange thought—that I have seen thy face ere now, Fidelis. Yet art full young to bear arms a-field."

"Doth my youth plague thee still, messire? Believe me, I am—older than I seem."

"Thou, at peril of thy life, Fidelis, didst leap 'twixt me and death, so needs must I know thee for my friend, and yet—"

"And yet, messire?"

"Thou hast betimes the look and speech of one—of one beyond all traitors vile!"

"Ah," murmured Sir Fidelis, a sudden tremor in his voice, "thou dost mean—?"

"Helen of Mortain—poor Fidelis—whom thou dost love."

"Whom thou dost hate, Beltane! And O, I pray thee, wherefore is thy hate so bitter?"

"Fidelis, there lived a fool, that, for her beauty, loved her with a mighty love: that, for her seeming truth and purity, honoured her beyond all things: that, in the end, did find her beyond all things vile. Aye, there lived a fool—and I am he."

"Ah, beseech thee," cried Sir Fidelis, white hands outstretched, "how know you her thus false to thee, Beltane?"

"Know then, Sir Fidelis, that—upon our wedding-eve I was—by her command struck down—within the chapel—upon the very altar, and by her borne in bonds unto Garthlaxton Keep—a present to mine enemy, Duke Ivo—"

"O, 'tis a lie—O dear my lord—'tis lie most foul—!"

"In witness whereof behold upon my wrists the shameful irons from my dungeon—"

"Alas! here was no work of Helen's—no thought, no will—Helen would have died to save thee this—"

"So, Fidelis, do I scorn all women that do live upon this earth henceforth—but, above all, Helen the Beautiful! the Wilful! who in her white bosom doth bear a heart more foul than Trojan Helen, that was a woman false and damned. So now, all's said."

Now fell Sir Fidelis upon his knees and spake quick and passionate:

"Nay, Beltane, hear me! For now do I swear that he who told thee 'twas Helen wrought thee this vile wrong—who told thee this doth lie—O, doth lie! Now do I swear that never by word or thought or deed, hath she been false to thee—I do swear she loveth thee—ah, spurn me not— O, believe—"

"Enough—enough, good Fidelis, perjure not thy sweet youth for one so much unworthy, for with these eyes did I behold her as they bore me in my bonds—and shall I not believe mine eyes?"

"Never—ah! never, when they do shew thee Helen false and cruel to thee! Here was some vile magic—witchcraft—"

"Enough, Fidelis, 'tis past and done. Here was a woman false—well, 'tis none so singular—there have been others—there will be others. So, God keep thee, sweet youth, from the ways of women. Nay, let us speak of this no more, for in sooth I grow a-weary and we must ride with the dawn to-morrow. So, betake thee to thy rest, nor grieve thee for my sorrows past and done—mayhap they shall be things to smile upon one day."

So saying, Beltane sighed, and laid him down among the bracken and thereafter Fidelis did the like; the fire sank and waned, and oft Sir Fidelis stirred restless in the shadows; the river murmured slumberously among the sedge, but Beltane, hearkening with drowsy ears, oft thought to hear another sound, very soft and repressed yet very dolorous, ere, worn and spent, and something weakened by wound and loss of blood, he sank at last to deep and gentle sleep.

But in his sleep he dreamed that one knelt above him in the dark, keeping watch upon his slumbers in the attitude of one in prayer—one whom he knew, yet knew not; it seemed to Beltane in his dream, that this silent, slender shape, stooped of a sudden, low and lower, to kiss the iron fetters that bound his wrists; then Beltane strove to wake yet could not wake, but in his slumber sighed a name, soft-breathed and gentle as the languorous murmur of the stream:

"Helen!"



CHAPTER XLIII

HOW BELTANE KNEW GREAT HUMILITY

The rising sun, darting an inquisitive beam 'twixt a leafy opening, fell upon Beltane's wide, slow-heaving breast; crept upwards to his chin, his cheek, and finally strove to peep beneath his slumberous, close-shut lids; whereat Beltane stirred, yawned, threw wide and stretched his mighty arms, and thereafter, blinking drowsily, sat up, his golden hair be-tousled, and stared sleepily about him.

Birds piped joyously near and far; hid among the leaves near by, the war-horse Mars stamped eager hoof and snuffed the fragrant air of morning; but Sir Fidelis was nowhere to be seen. Thus in a while Beltane arose to find his leg very stiff and sore, and his throat be parched with feverish thirst; wherefore, limping painfully, he turned where a little water-brook went singing o'er pebbly bed to join the slow-moving river; but, putting aside the leaves, he paused of a sudden, for there, beside the noisy streamlet he beheld Sir Fidelis, his bascinet upon the grass beside him, his mail-coif thrown back betwixt his shoulders, stooping to bathe his face in the sparkling water.

Now would he have called a greeting, but the words died upon his lips, his breath stayed, and he stared at something that had caught in the links of the young knight's mail-coif, something that stirred light and wanton, kissed by the breath of early morn—a lock of bright hair that glowed a wondrous red-gold in the new-risen sun. So stood Beltane awhile, and, beholding this, a trembling seized him and therewith sudden anger, and he strode forth of the leaves. And lo! on the instant, on went hood of mail and thereafter shining bascinet, and Sir Fidelis arose. But, ere he could turn, Beltane was beside him, had caught him within a powerful arm, and, setting a hand 'neath mailed chin, lifted the young knight's head and scowled down into his face.

Eyes long, black-lashed and darkly blue that looked up awhile into his, wide, yet fearless, and anon, were hid 'neath languorous-drooping lids; a nose tenderly aquiline, lips red and full that met in ripe and luscious curves. This Beltane saw, and straightway his anger grew.

"Ah!" cried he, hoarsely, "now, by the living God, who art thou, and— what?"

"Thy—comrade-in-arms, lord Beltane."

"Why hast thou the seeming of one beyond all women false? Why dost thou speak me betimes in her voice, look at me with her eyes, touch me with her soft, white, traitor's hands—answer me!"

"My lord, we are akin, she and I—of the same house and blood—"

"Then is thy blood foul with treachery!"

"Yet did I save thy life, Beltane!"

"Yet thy soft voice, thy red mouth and false eyes—thy very blood—all these do prove thee traitor—hence!" and Beltane threw him off.

"Nay my lord!" he cried, "prithee take care, Beltane,—see—thou hast displaced the bandage, thy wound bleedeth amain—so will I bind it up for thee—"

But Beltane, nothing heeding, turned and strode back into the green and there fell to donning his armour as swiftly as he might—albeit stealthily. Thereafter came he to the destrier Mars and, having saddled and bridled him with the same swift stealth, set foot in stirrup and would have mounted, yet found this a painful matter by reason of his wound; thus it befell, that, ere he could reach the saddle, the leaves parted close by and Sir Fidelis spake soft-voiced:

"My lord Beltane, why dost thou steal away thus? An it be thy will to leave me to perish alone here in the wilderness, first break thy fast, and suffer me to bind up thy hurt, so shalt thou ride hence in comfort." Now stood Beltane motionless and silent, nor turned nor dared he look upon Sir Fidelis, but bowed his head in bitter shame, and, therewith, knew a great remorse.

"Ah, Fidelis," said he at last, "thy rebuke stingeth deep, for it is just, since I indeed did purpose thee a most vile thing! How vile a thing, then, am I—"

"Nay, Beltane—dear my lord, I would not have thee grieve, indeed 'twas but—"

"Once ere this I would have slain thee, Fidelis—murdered thee before my wild fellows—I—I, that did preach them mercy and gentleness! To-day I would have left thee to perish alone within this ravening wilderness—that do bear so honourable a name! O Beltane, my father! Yet, believe me, I did love honour once, and was accounted gentle. I did set forth to do great things, but now—now do I know myself unfit and most unworthy. Therefore, Sir Fidelis, do thou take the horse and what thou wilt beside and leave me here, for fain am I to end my days within these solitudes with no eye to see me more—save only the eye of God!" So saying, Beltane went aside, and sitting 'neath a tree beside the river, bowed his head upon his hands and groaned; then came Sir Fidelis full swift, and stooping, touched his bowed head with gentle hand, whereat he but groaned again.

"God pity me!" quoth he, "I am in sooth so changed, meseemeth some vile demon doth possess me betimes!" and, sighing deep, he gazed upon the rippling waters wide-eyed and fearful. And, as he sat thus, abashed and despairing, Sir Fidelis, speaking no word, bathed and bound up his wound, and, thereafter brought and spread forth their remaining viands.

"Eat," said he gently, "come, let us break our fast, mayhap thy sorrows shall grow less anon. Come, eat, I pray thee, Beltane, for none will I eat alone and, O, I famish!"

So they ate together, whiles the war-horse Mars, pawing impatient hoof, oft turned his great head to view them with round and wistful eye.

"Fidelis," quoth Beltane suddenly, "thou didst name me selfish, and verily, a selfish man am I—and to-day! O Fidelis, why dost not reproach me for the evil I purposed thee to-day?"

"For that I do most truly love thee, Beltane my lord!"

"Yet wherefore did ye so yesterday, and for lesser fault?"

"For that I did love thee, so would I see thee a strong man—yet gentle: a potent lord, yet humble: a noble man as—as thou wert said to be!"

"Alas, my Fidelis, harsh have I been, proud and unforgiving—"

"Aye, my lord—thou art unforgiving—a little!"

"So now, Fidelis, would I crave forgiveness of all men." Then came the young knight nearer yet, his face radiant with sudden joy, his white hands clasped.

"Lord!" he whispered, "O Beltane, could'st indeed forgive all—all harm done thee, howsoever great or small thy mind doth hold them—could'st forgive all!"

"Aye, I could forgive them all, Fidelis—all save Helen—who hath broke this heart of mine and made my soul a thing as black as she hath whited this my hair."

Now of a sudden Beltane heard a sound—a small sound 'twixt a sob and a moan, but when he raised his heavy head—lo! Sir Fidelis was gone.



CHAPTER XLIV

HOW A MADNESS CAME UPON BELTANE IN THE WILD-WOOD

The sun rose high, jet still Beltane sat there beside the stream, staring down into the gurgling waters, grieving amain for his unworthiness.

Thus presently comes Sir Fidelis, and standing afar, spake in voice strange and bitter:

"What do ye there, my lord? Dost dream ever upon thy woes and ills? Wilt dream thy life away here amid the wild, forsooth?"

Quoth Beltane, very humbly:

"And wherefore not, Sir Fidelis? Unfit am I for great achievements. But, as to thee, take now the horse and ride you ever north and west—"

"Yea, but where is north, and where west—?"

"The trees shall tell you this. Hearken now—"

"Nay, my lord, no forester am I to find my way through trackless wild. So, an thou stay, so, perforce, must I: and if thou stay then art thou deeply forsworn."

"How mean you, good sir?"

"I mean Belsaye—I mean all those brave souls that do wait and watch, pale-cheeked, 'gainst Ivo's threatened vengeance—"

"Ha—Belsaye!" quoth Beltane, lifting his head.

"Thou must save Belsaye from flame and ravishment, my lord!"

"Aye, forsooth," cried Beltane, clenching his hands, "though I be unworthy to stand in my noble father's place, yet Belsaye must be saved or I die in it. O Fidelis, friend art thou indeed and wise beyond thy years!" But as Beltane arose, Sir Fidelis incontinent turned away, and presently came back leading the great horse. So in a while they set out northwards; but now were no arms to clasp and cling, since Sir Fidelis found hold otherwhere. Thus, after some going, Beltane questioned him:

"Art easy, Fidelis?"

"Aye, lord!"

"Wilt not take hold upon my belt, as yesterday?"

"Methinks I am better thus."

"Nay then, shalt have stirrups and saddle, for I am fain to walk."

"And re-open thy wound, messire? Nay, let be—I ride easily thus."

"Art angered with me, Fidelis?"

"Nay, lord, I do but pity thee!"

"And wherefore?"

"For thy so great loneliness—in all thy world is none but Beltane, and he is very woeful and dreameth ever of his wrongs—"

"Would'st call me selfish again, forsooth?"

"Nay, lord—a martyr. O, a very martyr that huggeth his chains and kisseth his wounds and joyeth in the recollection of his pain."

"Have I not suffered, Fidelis?"

"Thou hast known the jangling gloom of a dungeon—'twas at Garthlaxton Keep, methinks?"

"Fetters!" cried Beltane, "a dungeon! These be things to smile at—my grief is of the mind—the deeper woe of high and noble ideals shattered—a holy altar blackened and profaned—a woman worshipped as divine, and proved baser than the basest!"

"And is this all, my lord?"

"All!" quoth Beltane amazed. "All!" saith he, turning to stare.

"So much of woe and tribulation for so little reason? Nay, hear me, for now will I make thee a prophecy, as thus: There shall dawn a day, lord Beltane, when thou shalt see at last and know Truth when she stands before thee. And, in that day thou shalt behold all things with new eyes: and in that day shalt thou sigh, and long, and yearn with all thy soul for these woeful hours wherein Self looms for thee so large thou art blind to aught else."

"Good Fidelis, thy prophecy is beyond my understanding."

"Aye, my lord, 'tis so I think, indeed!"

"Pray thee therefore rede and expound it unto me!"

"Nay, time mayhap shall teach it thee, and thou, methinks shalt passionately desire again the solitude of this wilderness."

"Aye, but wherefore?"

"For that it shall be beyond thy reach—and mine!" and Fidelis sighed in deep and troubled fashion and so fell to silence, what time Beltane, cunning in wood-lore, glancing hither and thither at knotted branch and writhen tree bole, viewing earth and heaven with a forester's quick eye, rode on into the trackless wilds of the forest-lands.

Now here, thinketh the historian, it booteth not to tell of all those minor haps and chances that befell them; how, despite all Beltane's wood-craft, they went astray full oft by reason of fordless rivers and quaking swamps: of how they snared game to their sustenance, or how, for all the care and skill of Sir Fidelis, Beltane's wound healed not, by reason of continual riding, for that each day he grew more restless and eager for knowledge of Belsaye, so that, because of his wound he knew small rest by day and a fevered sleep by night—yet, despite all, his love for Fidelis daily waxed and grew, what time he pressed on through the wild country, north-westerly.

Five weary days and nights wandered they, lost to sight and knowledge within the wild; days of heat and nights of pain and travail, until there came an evening when, racked with anguish and faint with thirst and weariness, Beltane drew rein within a place of rocks whereby was a shady pool deep-bowered in trees. Down sprang Fidelis to look anxiously on Beltane's face, pale and haggard in the light of a great moon.

Says Beltane, looking round about with knitted brow:

"Fidelis—O Fidelis, methinks I know this place—these rocks—the pool yonder—there should be a road hereabout, the great road that leadeth to Mortain. Climb now the steep and tell me an you can see a road, running north and south."

Forthwith Sir Fidelis climbed the rocky eminence, and, being there, cried right joyously:

"Aye, lord—'tis the road—the road!" and so came hastily down, glad-eyed. "'Tis the end of this wilderness at last, my lord!"

"Aye!" sighed Beltane, "at last!" and groaning, he swayed in the saddle—for his pain was very sore—and would have fallen but for the ready arms of Sir Fidelis. Thereafter, with much labour, Beltane got him to earth, and Fidelis brought him where, beneath the steep, was a shallow cave carpeted with soft moss, very excellent suited to their need. Here Beltane laid him down, watching a little cataract that rippled o'er the rocky bank near by, where ferns and lichens grew; what time Sir Fidelis came and went, and, having set fire a-going whereby to cook their supper, brought an armful of fragrant heather to set 'neath Beltane's weary head. Then, having given him to drink of the cordial, fell to work bathing and bandaging his wound, sighing often to see it so swollen and angry.

"Fidelis," quoth Beltane, "methinks there is some magic in thy touch, for now is my pain abated—hast a wondrous gentle hand—"

"'Tis the cordial giveth thee respite, lord—"

"Nay, 'tis thy hand, methinks. Sure no man e'er was blest with truer friend than thou, my Fidelis; brave art thou, yet tender as any woman, and rather would I have thy love than the love of any man or woman soever, henceforth, dear my friend. Nay, wherefore hang thy head? without thee I had died many times ere this; without thy voice to cheer me in these solitudes, thy strength and skill to aid me, I had fallen into madness and death. Wherefore I do love thee, Fidelis, and fain would have thee go beside me ever—so great is become my need of thee."

"Ah, Beltane, thou dost know I will ne'er desert thee!"

"So henceforth am I content—and yet—"

"Well, my lord?"

"To-morrow, perchance, shall see the end of this our solitude and close comradeship—to-morrow we should reach Hundleby Fen. So, Fidelis, promise me, if thou, at any time hereafter should see me harsh, or proud, or selfish—do thou mind me of these days of our love and companionship. Wilt promise me?"

"Aye, lord!" spake Sir Fidelis, low-bending to his task; and thereafter sighed, and bowed him lower yet.

"Wherefore dost thou sigh?"

"For that I feel as if—ah, Beltane!—as if this night should be the end of our love and comradeship!"

"Nought but death shall do this, methinks."

"Why then," said Fidelis as he rose, "an it must be, fain would I have death."

But when Beltane would have questioned him further he smiled sad and wistful and went forth to the fire. Up rose the moon, a thing of glory filling the warm, stilly night with a soft and radiant splendour—a tender light, fraught with a subtle magic, whereby all things, rock and tree and leaping brook, found a new and added beauty.

And in some while comes Sir Fidelis to set out their viands, neat and orderly, as was ever his custom, and thereafter must needs chide Beltane, soft-voiced, for his lack of hunger, and cut dainty morsels, wooing him thereby to eat.

"Fidelis," says Beltane, "on so fair a night as this, methinks, the old fables and romances might well be true that tell of elves that dance on moony nights, and of shapely nymphs and lovely dryads that are the spirits of the trees. Aye, in the magic of so fair a night as this aught might happen—miracles and wonders."

"Save one thing, dear my lord."

"As what, my Fidelis?"

"That thou should'st dream Helen pure and faithful and worthy to thy love—that, doubting thine own senses, thou should'st yearn and sigh to hold her once again, heart on heart—"

"Ah, Fidelis," quoth Beltane, sighing deep, "why wilt thou awake a sleeping sorrow? My love was dead long since, meseemeth, and buried in mine heart. O Fidelis, mine eyes, mine ears, my every sense do tell me she is false—so is an end of love for me henceforth."

"Dear my lord," spake Fidelis, and his voice thrilled strangely in Beltane's ears—"O, Beltane, my lord, could'st thou but doubt thyself a little—could'st thou, doubting thine own senses for love's sake, believe her now true—true as thou would'st have her, then Love indeed might work for thee a miracle this night and thou be loved as man of god-like faith."

"Nay, sweet Fidelis, I am but a man, apt to evil betimes and betimes seeking good. Howbeit, now am I a weary man that fain would sleep. Come then, lay you down here beside me where I may touch thee an I awake i' the night." And, lying down, Beltane beckoned Fidelis beside him.

So in a while the young knight came and did as Beltane bade, and side by side they lay within the shelter of the little cave; and in the dark, Beltane set his mighty arm about him and thereafter spake, wondering:

"Art not cold, Fidelis?"

"Nay, lord."

"Then why dost tremble?"

"Indeed I know not—mayhap I grieved that—the age of miracles—is passed away."

Now at this Beltane wondered the more and would fain have questioned him, but in that moment sighed, and fell to slumber. But in his sleep he dreamed that Fidelis was beset by foes and cried to him for aid, whereon he would have hasted to his deliverance yet could not for that unseen hands held him fast; then strove he amain against these griping hands, and so awaked in sudden terror and lay there trembling in the dark; and in the dark he reached out cautious hand further and further and so found himself alone—for the young knight was gone.

Now being very sick with the fever of his wound, dread came upon him, fear seized and shook him, and, trembling in the dark he called aloud "Fidelis! Fidelis!" But no sound heard he save the ripple of the brook near by. Groaning, he arose and, limping forth of the cave stood in the glory of the moon, voiceless now by reason of his ever-growing terror; conscious only of his passionate desire to find again the youth whose gentle voice had cheered him often in the dark, whose high courage and tender care had never failed. So, leaning upon his great sword, Beltane limped through light and shadow, heedless of direction, until he was stayed by the waters of the pool.

A faint splash, a rippling of the sleepy waters, and, out into the moonlight came one that swam the pool with long, easy strokes; one that presently leapt lightly ashore and stood there to shake down the unwetted glory of her hair. At first he thought this some enchanted pool and she the goddess of the place, but even then she turned, and thus at last—he knew. And in that moment also, she beheld him amid the leaves; tall and fair she stood, proud and maidenly, nor moved she, nor spake: only she shook about her loveliness the shining mantle of her hair. And beholding the reproachful sadness of those clear, virgin eyes, Beltane, abashed by her very beauty, bowed his head, and turning, stumbled away and thus presently finding himself within the cave, threw himself down and clasped his head within fierce hands. Yet, even so, needs must he behold the slim, white beauty of her, the rippling splendour of her hair, and the deep, shy sadness of her eyes, and, because of her beauty he trembled, and because of her falsity he groaned aloud.

Now as he lay thus, after some while he heard a swift, light footfall, the whisper of mail, and knew that she stood above him; yet he heeded not, wherefore at last she spake, sweet-voiced and gentle.

"Beltane—dear my lord, now dost thou know who is Fidelis, and thou didst—love Fidelis!" But Beltane stirred not, and finding him silent, she spake on, yet faltering a little:

"When I waked from my swoon within the chapel at—at Blaen, and found thee gone, I, distraught with woeful fear and a most strange sickness, took thy sword and therewith horse and armour and in that same hour fled from Blaen, none knowing. Many days I rode seeking thee, until Love brought me to thee in the green. But, O Beltane, for those dire chances of our—wedding night, by what spells and witchcraft our happiness was changed to sorrow and dire amaze, I know no more than thou. Ah, Beltane—dear my lord—speak—speak to me!" And falling on her knees she would have lifted his head. But of a sudden he shrank away, and rose to his feet.

"Touch me not, I am but a man and thou—art woman, and there is evil in thee, so touch me not with thy false, alluring hands. O, thou hast deceived me now as ever—As Fidelis did I love thee above all men, but for what thou art, I do despise thee—"

But, with sudden gesture passionate and yearning, she reached out her white hands, and, kneeling thus, looked up at him with eyes a-swoon with love and supplication.

"Beltane!" she sighed, "Beltane! Is thy great love dead in very truth? nay, indeed I know it liveth yet even as mine, and shall live on forever. I know—I have seen it leap within thine eyes, heard it in thy voice—and wherefore did'st thou love Fidelis? Look at me, Beltane! I can be as brave, as faithful and tender as Fidelis! Look at me!"

But Beltane dared not look, and trembled because of her so great beauty, and fain would speak yet could not.

Whereat she, yet upon her knees, drew nearer.

"Beltane," she murmured, "trust me. Despite thyself, O, trust me—so shalt thou find happiness at last and Pentavalon an end to all her sorrows. Be thou my lord, my master—my dear love and husband—ride with me this night to my fair Mortain—"

"To Mortain?" cried Beltane wildly, "aye, to Blaen, belike—to silken wantonings and to—death! Tempt me not, O witch—aye, witch that weaveth spells of her beauty—tempt me not I say, lest I slay thee to mine own defence, for I know thee beyond all women fair, yet would I slay thee first—" But, groaning, Beltane cast aside his sword and covered burning eyes with burning palms, yet shook as with an ague fit.

The pleading hands fell, to clasp and wring each other; her proud head sank, and a great sob brake from her, what time Beltane watched her with eyes bright with fever and swayed upon his feet. Stumbling, he turned, and left her, yet presently came back leading the war-horse Mars.

"To Mortain shalt thou ride to-night—I pray thee mount!" cried he, "Come—mount, I say!"

Standing tall and proud before him she sighed and spake deep-sorrowing:

"Then will I leave thee—an it must be so. But, in days to come, mayhap, thou shalt grieve for this hour, Beltane, nor shall all thy sighs nor all thy tears avail to bring it back again. Thou hast shamed me oft, yet for all thy bitter scorns I do forgive thee, aye, even the anguish of my breaking heart, for that my love doth rise beyond my pain; and so, dear my lord—fare thee well!"

So she mounted, whereat the mettled charger must needs rear, and Beltane, staggering aside, catch at a tree and lean there.

"Art sick, Beltane?" she cried in sudden fear—"how may I leave thee thus—art sick!"

"Aye, Helen, for thy beauty. The devil is here, and I am here, so here is no place for thee—so get thee gone, spur—spur! for despising thee in my heart yet would I have thee stay: yet, an thou stay needs must I slay thee ere the dawn and myself thereafter!"

Thus spake he, his voice loud, his speech quick and fevered.

"Indeed, thou'rt sick, my lord—nor do I fear thee, thou noble son of noble father!"

"My father! Forsooth he liveth in Holy Cross Thicket within Mortain; he bade me beware of women and the ways of women. So do I know thee witch, thou golden Helen. Ha! must Troy burn again—I loved thee once, but love is dead long since and turned corrupt—so get thee hence, Helen the Wilful!"

"O, God pity thee, my Beltane, for thou dost love me yet, even as I love thee—thou lonely man-child! God pity thee, and me also!" and, crying thus, forlorn and desolate, the Duchess Helen rode upon her solitary way.

Then turned Beltane and stumbled on he knew not whither, and betimes he laughed loud and high and betimes he was shaken by great and fierce sobs, yet found he never a tear. Thus, limping painfully, and stumbling anon as one smitten blind, he wandered awhile, and so at length found himself beside the little cave; and throwing himself down within its shadows, tore away the bandages her gentle hands had wrought.

And lying there, it seemed that Fidelis yet lay beneath his arm, the Fidelis who was no Fidelis; and in the shadows he laughed amain—wild laughter that died of a sudden, choked by awful sobs, what time he clenched his hands upon his throbbing ears; yet still, above the sounds of his own anguish, needs must he hear again that forlorn and desolate cry:

"O, God pity thee, Beltane!"

And now followed long hours when demons vile racked him with anguish and mocked him with bitter gibes; a haunted darkness where was fear and doubt and terror of things unknown: yet, in the blackness, a light that grew to a glory wherein no evil thing might be, and in this glory SHE did stand, tall and fair and virginal. And from the depths of blackness, he cried to her in agony of remorse, and from the light she looked down on him with eyes brimful of yearning love and tenderness, for that a gulf divided them. But, across this hateful void she called to him—"O, God pity thee, my Beltane!"



CHAPTER XLV

HOW BLACK ROGER TAUGHT BELTANE GREAT WISDOM

A darkness, full of a great quietude, a grateful stillness, slumberous and restful; yet, little by little, upon this all-pervading silence, a sound crept, soft, but distressful to one who fain would sleep; a sound that grew, a sharp noise and querulous. And now, in the blackness, a glimmer, a furtive gleam, a faint glow that grew brighter and yet more bright, hurtful to eyes long used to deeps of gloom; but, with the noise, ever this light grew—from gleam to glow and from glow to dazzling glare; and so, at last, Beltane opened unwilling eyes—eyes that blinked and smarted as they beheld a leaping flame where a fire of twigs crackled merrily against a purple void beyond; beholding all of which, Beltane forthwith shut his eyes again. But those soft deeps wherein he had found so sweet oblivion, that great and blessed quietude were altogether vanished and beyond him to regain; wherefore Beltane felt himself aggrieved and sorrowed within himself, and so, presently oped his reluctant eyes and fell to watching the play of wanton spark and flame. None the less he knew himself yet aggrieved, also he felt a sudden loneliness, wherefore (as was become his custom of late) he called on one ever heedful and swift to answer his call.

"Fidelis!" he called, "Fidelis!" Yet came there no one, and Beltane wondered vaguely why his voice should sound so thin and far away. So, troubling not to move, he called again:

"Fidelis—art sleeping, my Fidelis?"

Now of a sudden, one stirred amid the shadows beyond the fire, mail gleamed, and Black Roger bent over him.

"Master!" he cried joyfully, his eyes very bright, "O, master, art awake at last?—dost know Roger—thy man,—dost know thy Roger, lord?"

"Aye, forsooth, I know thee, Roger," says Beltane, yet aggrieved and querulous, "but I called not thee. Send me Fidelis—where tarries Fidelis?"

"Master, I know not. He came to me within the Hollow six nights agone and gave to me his horse and bid me seek thee here. Thereafter went he afoot by the forest road, and I rode hither and found thee, according to his word."

Then would Beltane have risen, but could not, and stared at Black Roger's pitiful face with eyes of wonder.

"Why, Roger!" quoth he, "Why, Roger—?"

"Thou hast been very nigh to death, master. A mad-man I found thee, in sooth—foaming, master, and crying in direful voice of spells and magic. Bewitched wert thou, master, in very sooth—and strove and fought with me, and wept as no man should weep, and all by reason of a vile enchantment which the sweet saints forfend. So here hast thou lain on the borders of death and here have I ministered to thee as Sir Fidelis did teach me; and, but for these medicaments, I had wept upon thy grave, for wert direly sick, lord, and—"

"Nay, here is no matter—tell me, tell me, where is Fidelis?"

"Dear master I know not, forsooth!"

"Went he by the forest road?"

"Aye, master, the forest road."

"Afoot?"

"Afoot, lord."

"Said he aught to thee of—of me, Roger?"

"Aye, 'twas all of thee and thy wound, and how to ease thy pain I must do this, forsooth, and that, forsooth, and to break the fever must mix and give thee certain cordials, the which I have done."

"Said he aught beside—aught else, Roger?"

"Aye, master, he bid me pray for thee, the which I have also done, though I had rather fight for thee; nathless the sweet saints have answered even my poor prayers, for behold, thou art alive and shall be well anon."

Now after this. Beltane lay with eyes fast shut and spake not; thus he lay so long, that Roger, thinking he slept again, would have moved away, but Beltane's feeble hand stayed him, and he spake, yet with eyes still closed.

"By the forest road, Roger!"

"Aye, master."

"Alone, Roger!"

"Aye, lord, alone."

"And—afoot, Roger!"

"Aye, lord, he bade me take his horse that I might come to thee the sooner."

"And—bid thee—pray for me—for me, Roger!"

"Verily, master. And pray I did, right lustily."

"So do I thank thee, Roger," said Beltane, speaking ever with closed eyes. "Yet I would that God had let me die, Roger." And behold, from these closed eyes, great tears, slow-oozing and painful, that rolled a-down the pallid cheek, very bright in the fire-glow, and glistening like the fairest gems.

"Master—O master!" cried Roger, "dost grieve thee for Sir Fidelis?"

"Forsooth, I must, Roger—he was a peerless friend, methinks!"

"Aye master, and—noble lady!"

"Roger—O Roger, how learned you this? Speak!"

"Lord, thou hast had visions and talked much within thy sickness. So do I know that thou dost love the Duchess Helen that men do call 'the Beautiful.' I do know that on thy marriage night thou wert snatched away to shameful prison. I do know that she, because her heart was as great as her love, did follow thee in knightly guise, and thou did most ungently drive her from thee. All this, and much beside, thou didst shout and whisper in thy fever."

Quoth Beltane, plucking at Roger with feeble hand:

"Roger—O Roger, since this thou knowest—tell me, tell me, can faith and treachery lie thus within one woman's heart—and of all women— her's?"

"Master, can white be black? Can day be night? Can heaven be hell—or can truth lie? So, an Sir Fidelis be faithful (and faithful forsooth is he) so is the Duchess Helen faithful—"

"Nay, an she be true—O Roger, an she be true indeed, how think you of the treachery, of—"

"I think here was witchcraft, master, spells, see'st thou, and magic black and damned. As thou wert true to her, so was she true to thee, as true as—aye, as true as I am, and true am I, Saint Cuthbert knoweth that, who hath heard my prayers full oft of late, master."

"Now God bless thee, Roger—O, God bless thee!" So crying, of a sudden Beltane caught Black Roger's sun-burned hand and kissed it, and thereafter turned him to the shadows. And, lying thus, Beltane wept, very bitterly yet very silent, until, like a grieving child he had wept himself to forgetfulness and sleep. So slept he, clasped within Roger's mailed arm. But full oft Black Roger lifted his bronzed right hand—the hand that had felt Beltane's sudden kiss—and needs must he view it with eyes of wonder, as if it had been indeed some holy thing, what time he kept his midnight vigil beside the fire.



CHAPTER XLVI

HOW BLACK ROGER PRAYED IN THE DAWN: AND HOW HIS PRAYERS WERE ANSWERED

"Holy Saint Cuthbert, art a very sweet and potent saint, and therefore hast good eyes—which is well; so canst thou see him for thyself, how weak he is and languid, that was a mighty man and lusty. Cherish him, I pray thee! A goodly youth thou dost know him, thou didst see him burn a gibbet, moreover I have told thee—and eke a knight of high degree. Yet doth he lie here direly sick of body. Cherish him, I pray! Moreover, sick is he of mind, for that he loveth one, a lady, methinks good and worthy—so bring them together, these twain, not above, as saints in heaven, but first as man and woman that shall beget such men as he, such noble dames as she, and make the world a better place therefor. See you to this matter, good Saint Cuthbert, and also the matter of his Dukedom. But when he shall be Duke indeed, and blest with her that is so fair a maid and apt to motherhood—I pray thee, Saint Cuthbert, let him not forget me whose soul he saved long since within the green in the matter of Beda that was a Jester—I pray thee let him have regard to Black Roger that am his man henceforth to the end. Amen. Holy Saint Cuthbert grant me this."

It was Black Roger, praying in the dawn, his broadsword set upright in the ling, his hands devoutly crossed and his black head stooped full low; thus he saw not Beltane's eyes upon him until his prayer was ended.

Quoth Beltane then:

"May heaven grant thee thy prayer, Roger—'twas a good prayer and I the better for it."

"Why, look now, master," says Roger, somewhat abashed, "I am a something better prayer than I was, and I pray in good Saxon English; thus do I call on Saint Cuthbert, that was a lusty Saxon ere that he was a saint."

"But, Roger, what need to supplicate lest I forget thee? Think you I should forget my faithful Roger?"

"Why, lord," says Roger, busily preparing wherewith to break their fast, "when a man marrieth, see you, and thereafter proceedeth forthwith to get him children, as the custom is—"

"Nay, dost talk folly, Roger!" quoth Beltane, his pale cheek flushing.

"Yet folly thou dost dream of, master, and she also—else wherefore love—"

"Nay, Roger, doth Belsaye lie secure yet? What of Walkyn and our comrades? Marched they to Belsaye as I did command?"

"Why, see you now, master, when our foes came not, and you came not, we sent word to Belsaye that, within two days we would march thither, according to thy word, and forthwith Giles sends word back that he was very well and wanted no long-legged Walkyn or surly Roger to share authority with him yet a while, and bid us twirl our thumbs within the green until he commanded our presence—with divers other ribald japes and wanton toys—whereon Walkyn and I waxed something wroth. Therefore, when ye came not, our comrades fell to factions and riot, whereat I, perforce, smote me one or two and Walkyn three or four and so brought peace among them. But when we would have tarried yet for thee, these rogue-fellows clamoured for Walkyn to lead them into the wild, back to their ancient outlawry; so loud they clamoured and so oft, that, in the end, Walkyn smiled—a strange thing in him, master— but he agreed, whereon we came nigh to cutting each other's throats, he and I. Howbeit, in the end he went, he and all the other rogues. So bided I alone in the Hollow, day and night, waiting thee, master, and at the last, cometh Sir Fidelis—and so all's said and behold thy breakfast—a coney, see you, lord, that I snared but yest're'en."

"Our company gone—outlaws, spending their lives to no purpose—here is evil news, Roger!"

"Here is tender meat, master, and delicate!"

"Back to outlawry! And Walkyn too!"

"Aye—but he smiled, master! Walkyn, methinks, is not a jovial soul, lord, and when he smileth it behoveth others to frown and—beware. So prithee eat hearty, lord, for, in a while the sun will stand above yon whin-bush, and then 'twill be the eleventh hour, and at the eleventh hour must I wash thy hurt and be-plaster it with this good ointment."

"What then?"

"Then shalt thou sleep, master, and I to the woods with my bow to get us meat—sweet juicy venison, an the saints be kind!"

"And wherefore at the eleventh hour?"

"For that—She did so command me, master."

"She?" sighed Beltane.

"Aye, forsooth, master. She that the good Saint Cuthbert shall give to thy close embracements one day."

"Think you so?" spake Beltane beneath his breath, and staring across the sunny glade with eyes of yearning, "think you so indeed, Roger?"

"Of a surety, lord," nodded Roger, "seeing that I do plague the good saint on the matter continually—for, master, when I pray, I do pray right lustily."

So, in a while, the meal done and crock and pannikin washed and set aside, Beltane's leg is bathed and dressed right skilfully with hands, for all their strength and hardness, wondrous light and gentle. Thereafter, stretched upon his bed of heather, Beltane watches Black Roger gird on belt and quiver, and, bow in hand, stride blithely into the green, and, ere he knows it, is asleep. And in his sleep, beholds one who bends to kiss him, white hands outstretched and all heaven in her eyes; and with her voice thrilling in his ears, wakes, to find the sun already westering and Black Roger near by, who, squatting before a rough table he has contrived set close beside the fire whereon a cooking pot seethes and bubbles, is busied with certain brewings, infusings and mixings in pipkin and pannikin, and all with brow of frowning portent.

Whereat says Beltane, wondering:

"What do ye, good Roger?"

"Master, I mix thee thy decoction as She did instruct—She is a learned youth, master—Sir Fidelis. In these dried herbs and simples, look you, lieth thy health and strength and Pentavalon's freedom—aye, a notable youth in faith, thy Duchess."

Hereupon Beltane, remembering his dream, must needs close his eyes that he may dream again, and is upon the portal of sleep when Roger's hand rouses him.

"What would'st, Roger?"

"Master—thy draught."

"Take it hence!"

"Nay, it must be swallowed, master."

"Then swallow it thyself!"

"Nay, lord, 'tis the hour for thy draught appointed by Sir Fidelis and She must be obeyed—come, master!" Forthwith, yet remembering his dream, Beltane opens unwilling eyes and more unwilling mouth and the draught is swallowed; whereupon comes languor and sleep, and therewith, more dreams.

Anon 'tis even-fall, and the stars, one by one, peep forth of the darkening heaven, shadows steal and lengthen and lo! 'tis night; a night wherein the placid moon, climbing apace, fills the silent world with the splendour of her advent. And ever and always Beltane lies deep-plunged in slumber; but in his sleep he groans full oft and oft doth call upon a name—a cry faint-voiced and weak, yet full of a passionate yearning; whereupon cometh sturdy Roger to behold him in the light of the fire, to stoop and soothe him with gentle hand; thus needs must he mark the glitter of a tear upon that pale and sunken cheek, wherefore Black Roger's own eyes must needs fall a-smarting and he to grieving amain. In so much that of a sudden he stealeth swiftly from the cave, and, drawing sword setteth it up-right in the ling; then kneeling with bowed head and reverent hands, forthwith fell to his prayers, after this wise:—

"Sweet Cuthbert—gentle saint—behind me in the shadows lieth my master—a-weeping in his slumber. So needs must I weep also, since I do love him for that he is a man. Good Saint Cuthbert, I have wrought for him my best as thou hast seen—tended his hurt thrice daily and ministered the potion as I was commanded. I have worked for him—prayed for him—yet doth he weep great tears within his sleep. So now do I place him in thy care, good saint, for thou dost know me but poor rogue Roger, a rough man and all unlearned, yet, even so, I do most truly love him and, loving him, do fear—for meseemeth his hurt is deeper than hurt of body, he doth pine him and grieve for lack of his heart's desire—a young man, sweet saint, that doth yearn for a maid right fair and noble, pars amours, good saint, as is the custom. But alack, she is far hence and he lieth here sick and like to perish and I am but poor Roger—a very sinful man that knoweth not what to do. So do I call on thee, sweet saint—achieve me a miracle on his behalf, bring him to his heart's desire that he may wax hale and well and weep no more within his sleep. And this do I ask for his sake and his lady's sake and for the sake of Pentavalon Duchy—not forgetting poor Roger that doth plague thee thus for love of him. Amen!"

Now behold! even as the prayer was ended came a faint stir and rustle amid the leaves hard by, and, lifting startled head, Black Roger beheld a radiant vision standing in the pale glory of the moon, whereat he knew fear and a great awe.

"O, good Saint Cuthbert, and is it thou indeed?" he whispered, "Sweet saint, I thought not to win thee down from heaven thus, though forsooth I did pray right lustily. But, since thou art come—"

"Hush, good Roger!" spake a voice soft and wondrous sweet to hear; and, so speaking, the shining figure raised the vizor of its helm. "O hush thee, Roger, for he sleepeth. All day, unseen, have I watched over him, nor can I leave him until his strength be come again. And sleep is life to him, so wake him not. Come your ways, for I would speak thee many things—follow!"

As one that dreams, Roger stared into the eyes beneath the vizor, and as one that dreams he rose up from his knees, and, sheathing his sword, followed whither the gleaming vision led; yet betimes he blinked upon the moon, and once he shook his head and spake as to himself:

"Verily—aye, verily, a lusty pray-er, I!"



CHAPTER XLVII

HOW BELTANE SWARE AN OATH

Slowly the days sped, dewy dawn and tender eve, days of sun and shadow and gentle rain; golden days wherein Beltane lay 'twixt sleep and wake, and nights of silver wherein he slept full deep and dreamed wondrously of gentle hands that soothed him with their touch, and warm soft lips on cheek and brow that filled him with a great and deep content.

And in these days, who so cheery as Black Roger, full of a new-found gaiety, who laughed for small reason and ofttimes for none at all and was forever humming snatches of strange song as he stooped above pipkin and pannikin. Much given was he also to frequent comings and goings within the green to no apparent end, while Beltane, within the little cave, lay 'twixt sleep and waking; moreover, full oft as they ate their evening meal together, he would start, and falling to sudden silence, sit as one that hearkens to distant sounds. Yet withal was he ever heedful of Beltane's many wants, who, as health came, grew more eager to be gone, but finding himself too weak, straightway waxed moody and rebellious, whereat smiling Roger waxed firm, so needs must frowning Beltane be bathed and bandaged and swallow his draught—because of She who had so commanded.

Now it befell upon a certain evening as Roger bent to peer into the pot that seethed and bubbled upon the fire and to sniff its appetising savour, he presently fell a-singing to himself in a voice gruff yet musical withal; whereupon Beltane, turning languid head, fell to watching this new Roger, and thereafter spake on this wise:

BELTANE. "What do ye so oft within the green?"

ROGER. "Hunt, that we may eat, master."

BELTANE. "I have seen thee go full oft of late and leave thy bow behind, Roger."

ROGER. "Whereby I judge that though thine eyes be shut ye do not always slumber, master, and methinks our supper is done—"

BELTANE. "Nay—what do ye in the green?"

ROGER. "Master, thy horse Mars hath a proud spirit and snorteth against his bonds. So, lest he break thy slumber, have I made him a shelter of wattles in the green."

BELTANE. "Truly, Roger, thou art greatly changed methinks."

ROGER (starting). "As how, master?"

BELTANE. "I have heard thee called Roger the grim, and Roger the surly, ere now."

ROGER (shaking woeful head). "Ere now, lord, I hanged men, conceiving it my duty."

BELTANE. "And to-day you sing—and wherefore?"

ROGER. "For joy in life, master."

BELTANE. "And thou dost laugh, surly Roger—oft-times for little reason, meseemeth."

ROGER. "For that my heart is renewed within me, master. Happiness is my bedfellow and companion—here is good reason for laughter, methinks."

BELTANE. "And wherefore art thou happy, Roger?"

ROGER. "Item first: thou dost mend apace, lord. Item second: this mess of venison hath a savour most delectable. Item third: happiness is the birthright of every man. Moreover I have learned that behind the blackest cloud is a glory of sun, and beyond sorrow, joy. So do I rejoice that all is like to be well with thee."

BELTANE (bitterly). "Well with me, say you? Is Pentavalon free, Roger? Do I not lie here, weak and helpless—my company scattered? O, call you this well, forsooth?"

ROGER. "'Tis true thou art weak as yet, master, but thou shalt rise again stronger than aforetime—aye, thou shalt arise indeed, and all Pentavalon with thee. So let thine heart rejoice and sing, as mine doth."

BELTANE (fiercely). "O evil day, that ere I gave my heart to woman's love, so do I lie here a useless thing—O day accursed!"

ROGER. "O day most blessed, since woman's love hath lifted thee from death and shall be thy glory and Pentavalon's salvation, master!"

BELTANE (eagerly). "Roger—Roger, speak you of the Duchess Helen? What mean you, man?"

ROGER. "There be signs and portents, master, the very air is full o' them. Whiles we tarry here, others be up and doing—"

BELTANE. "Others, Roger?"

ROGER. "Notably Walkyn o' the Axe, master!"

BELTANE. "Ha! and what of Walkyn?"

ROGER. "He smiled, master, as I told thee ere this, and when Walkyn smileth it behoveth others to be wary. So now do I tell thee that Walkyn hath taken and burned Duke Ivo's great Castle of Brandonmere, that Winisfarne city hath risen 'gainst the Duke and all the border villages likewise—aha! master, there be scythe-blades and good brown bills a-twinkle all along the marches eager to smite for freedom and Pentavalon when time is ripe!"

BELTANE (rising upon his knees). "Forsooth, is this so? O Roger, is this so in very truth?"

ROGER. "'Tis very truth, master. Upon my sword I swear it!"

BELTANE. "But whence had ye the wondrous news—how—when?"

ROGER. "Master, 'twas three nights agone, as I wrestled prodigiously in prayer on thy behalf, one came to me and spake me many things marvellous good to hear. Moreover, I have met divers folk within the greenwood and upon the forest-road yonder, and with all do I hold converse."

Then to Roger's amaze Beltane rose up, and standing square upon his feet lifted hands and eyes to heaven. "Now glory be to the living God," quoth he, "that hath heard the prayers of such as I. So now do I swear, come life, come death, to walk my appointed way sword in hand, henceforth, nor will I turn aside for man or woman, heeding not the lure of friendship or of love. I do swear never to look upon a woman to love—"

ROGER (fearfully). "Master—master!"

BELTANE. "Nor to suffer woman's love to come 'twixt me and my duty—"

ROGER (despairingly). "O master, swear it not—swear it not—"

BELTANE. "Nor shall aught let or stay me until Pentavalon win to freedom or my poor soul return whence it came. And this do I swear to the ears of God!"

Now turned he to Roger, bright-eyed and with hands tight-clenched.

"Roger," said he, "thou art witness to this my oath, an I do fail or falter henceforth, then in that same hour may sharp death be mine. So now bring to me sword and armour, for this night must I hence."

Now was Roger sore troubled and fain was to speak, but beholding his master's flashing eye, he presently did as he was commanded. So Beltane took hold upon the sword and drew it, and looked glad-eyed upon its broad and shining blade. But when he would have wielded it, behold! he scarce could lift it; with teeth fierce-clenched he strove against his weakness until his breath waxed short and the sweat ran from him, but ever the great blade grew the heavier. Then he groaned to find himself so feeble, and cried aloud an exceeding bitter cry, and cast the sword from him, and, staggering, fell into Roger's waiting arms. Forthwith Roger bare him to the cave and laid him down upon his bed.

"Master," quoth he, "O master, grieve not thyself, thou shalt be hale and strong anon, but the time is not yet. Comfort ye, comfort ye, my lord—ere long thou shalt be strong, aye, and mightier e'en than aforetime. So grieve not nor repine, my master!"

But Beltane lay heeding not, nor would he eat despite all Roger's wheedling arts; but being fevered and athirst, drank deep of the sleeping draught, and thereafter, falling to his black humour, turned his face to the shadows, and, lying thus, straightway fell to weeping, very silently, because of his so great weakness, until, like a child, he had wept himself to sleep.

Slowly the moon sank, the fire burned low and Roger snored blissfully hard by, but Beltane, blessed within his slumbers, dreamed again of one who stole, light of foot, to lie beside him watchful in the dark and with warm, soft arms set close about him like the sheltering arms of that mother he had never known.

Thus slept Beltane, like a weary child upon a mother's breast, and knew great peace and solace and a deep and utter content.



CHAPTER XLVIII

HOW BELTANE SET OUT FOR HANGSTONE WASTE

Day by day Beltane waxed in health and strength, and daily, leaning upon Roger's trusty arm he walked further afield. And day by day, with growing strength, so grew his doubt, and therewith, by times, a black despond; for needs must he think ever of Helen the Beautiful, and fain was he to tear her from his heart yet could not; then fain he would have hated her, but in his ears her cry rang still—"God pity thee, my Beltane!"—wherefore he was wont to fall to sudden gloom and melancholy.

But upon a certain blithe evening Black Roger stood leaning on his bow-stave to watch where Beltane swam the pool with mighty strokes, who, laughing for very joy of it, presently sprang ashore, panting with his exertions, and fell to donning his garments.

"How think ye, Roger," he cried, "am I fit to adventure me the world again?"

"Forsooth, master, art well of thy wound and fever, and in a week or so mayhap thou shalt perchance be well enough—"

"A week, Roger! I tell thee, man, this very day will I hence!"

"But, master," says Roger, shaking cautious head, "thy world is a world of battles, and for battle art scarce yet strong enough—"

"Say ye so, Roger? Then here and now shalt make trial of me. Art a tall and lusty fellow—come, man, let us try a fall together. And mark this, Roger, an thou canst put me on my back shalt have thy will in the matter, but, an I down thee, then hey! for horse and armour and the forest-road this very night. Come, is't agreed?"

Now hereupon the wily Roger, noting the pallor of Beltane's sunken cheek and how his broad breast laboured yet, and moreover feeling himself aglow with lusty life and vigour, smiled grimly, nothing doubting the issue. Wherefore he nodded his head.

"So be it, master," said he, "only take thy wind first." So saying he set aside bow and quiver, loosed off his sword, and tightening his belt, stepped towards Beltane, his broad back stooped, his knotted arms advanced and fingers crooked to grapple. Once and twice he circled, seeking a hold, then leapt he swift and low; arms and fingers clenched and locked, and Beltane was bent, swayed, and borne from his feet; but even so, with a cunning twist he brake Black Roger's hold and staggered free. Quoth he:

"Art a very strong man, Roger, stronger than methought. Come again!"

Once more they circled heedfully, for Beltane had grown more wary: thrice he sought a certain hold and thrice Black Roger foiled him, ere, sudden and grim, he leapt and closed; and breast to breast they strove fiercely, mighty arms straining and tight-clenched, writhing, swaying, reeling, in fast-locked, desperate grapple. Now to Roger's strength and quickness Beltane opposed craft and cunning, but wily Roger met guile with guile nor was to be allured to slack or change his gripe. Therefore of a sudden Beltane put forth his strength, and wrestled mightily, seeking to break or weaken Roger's deadly hold. But Roger's iron arms gripped and held him fast, crushed him, checked him.

"Aha! master," panted Roger, "now I have thee!" and therewith heaved right lustily, felt Beltane yield and stagger, slacked his grip for the final hold, and, in that moment, his arms were burst asunder, he was whirled up, kicking, 'twixt earth and heaven, laid gently upon the sward and, sitting up, found Beltane lying breathless beside him.

"'Twas a trick, Roger!" he panted, "I beat thee—but by an artifice—"

"Yet beaten I am, master," quoth Roger, vastly rueful.

"And art mightier than I thought thee, Roger."

"Master, I have wrestled oft with Gefroi that was the Duke's wrestler."

"Then art a better man than he, meseemeth," quoth Beltane.

"Yet thou hast beaten me, master!"

"So within the hour we will begone to our duty, Roger!"

"Whither, lord?"

"First to Winisfarne, and thence south to Belsaye, with every lusty fellow we can muster. How think you?"

"I think the time is not yet, master."

"Wherefore?"

"For that though things go well with thee and thy cause, yet shall they go better anon."

"Nevertheless, Roger, within the hour we march. So come, first let us eat, for I do famish."

So, when they had caught their breath again, together they arose and, coming to the cave beneath the steep, they re-made the fire and set the pot thereon; which done, Roger brought forth his lord's armour, bright and newly polished, and in a while Beltane stood, a shining figure from golden spur to gleaming bascinet. Thereafter, Roger armed him likewise, and as two brothers-in-arms they sat together and ate their meal with mighty appetite and gusto. Now presently, as they sat thus, Beltane espied a thing that lay by Roger's knee, and, taking it up, behold! 'twas a wallet of fair-sewn leather, very artfully wrought, and, gazing upon it he must needs fall to sudden thought, whereto he sighed full deep and oft, till, finding Roger watching him, he forthwith checked his sighs and frowned instead.

"Roger," quoth he, "whence had ye this thing?"

"My lord, from—Her, the sweet knight Sir Fidelis, thy lady—"

"Why wilt thou call her my lady, Roger?"

"For that 'tis she you love and sigh for, she that doth love thee and shall bear thee right fair and lusty children yet, so do I pray, and my prayers are potent these days, for the good Saint Cuthbert heedeth me regardfully. So do I know that she shall yet lie within thine arms and yield thee thine heart's desire, pars—"

"Art a fool, Roger—aye, a very fool, and talk arrant folly—"

"Yet, master, here is folly shall be thy joy and her joy and—"

"Enough, Roger! Hast forgot the oath I sware? And the ways of woman be crooked ways. And woman's love a light matter. Talk we of women no more."

"How!" quoth Roger, staring, "speak we no more of—Her?"

"No more!"

"Forsooth, so be it, master, then will we talk of Sir Fidelis his love—"

"Nor of Sir Fidelis."

"Ha!" growled Roger, scratching his head, "must we go mumchance then, master?"

"There be other matters for talk."

"Aye—there's witchcraft, master. For mark me, when thou wert sick and nigh to God and the holy saints, the evil spell could not come nigh thee, and thou didst yearn and cry continually for nought but—Her. But now—now that thou'rt hale and strong again—"

"I behold things with mind unclouded, Roger."

"Save by enchantments damned, master. Since that evil day we met yon accursed witch of Hangstone, hast never been thyself."

"Now do ye mind me how this woman did speak me of marvels and wonders, Roger—"

"Artifice, lord—devilish toys to lure thee to fouler bewitchments."

"Howbeit, I will seek her out."

"Nay, good master, here shall be perils dire and deadly. O bethink thee, lest she change thee into a swine, or black dog, aye, or even a small shrew-mouse—I've heard of such ere now—or blast thee with fire, or loathly disease, or—"

"None the less will I go."

"Never say so, master!"

"At the full o' the moon."

"Lord, now do I beseech thee—"

"And the moon will be full—to-night, Roger. Go you and saddle now the horse."

Forthwith went Roger, gloomy and nothing speaking, what time Beltane sat there staring down at the wallet on his knee, bethinking him of many things, and, for that he was alone, sighing deep and oft; and so, very suddenly, hung the wallet to his girdle and thereafter arose.

In a while cometh gloomy Roger leading the destrier Mars, whereon gloomy Beltane swung to saddle, and, looking round about him once and twice, rode slowly towards where, beyond the shade of trees, the forest road ran north and south.

But, as for Roger, needs must he pause upon the edge of the clearing to look back at the little cave beneath the steep, whereby the small water-brook flowed murmurously; a while he stood thus, to frown and shake gloomy head; then lifted he his hand on high, much as he had bid one sorrowful farewell, and, turning about, trudged away after his lord.



CHAPTER XLIX

HOW BELTANE FOUND PEACE AND A GREAT SORROW

It had been an evening of cloud, but now the sky was clear and the moon shone bright and round as they reached that desolate, wind-swept heath that went by the name of Hangstone Waste, a solitary place at all times but more especially wild and awful 'neath the ghostly moon; wherefore Roger went wide-eyed and fearful, and kept fast hold of Beltane's stirrup.

"Ha—master, master!" cried he 'twixt chattering teeth, "did'st not hear it, master?"

"Nay," answered Beltane, checking his horse, "what was it? where away?"

"'Twas a cry, master—beyond the marsh yonder. 'Tis there again!"

"'Twas an owl, Roger."

"'Twas a soul, master, a poor damned soul and desolate! We shall see dire and dreadful sights on Hangstone Waste this night, master—holy Saint Cuthbert! What was yon?"

"Nought but a bat, Roger."

"A bat, lord? Never think so. Here was, belike, a noble knight or a lusty fellow be-devilled into a bat. Good master, let us go no further —if thou hast no thought for thyself, have a little heed for poor Roger."

"Why look ye, good Roger, canst go where thou wilt, but, as for me, I ride for the White Morte-stone."

"Nay then, an thou'rt blasted this night, master, needs must I be blasted with thee—yonder lieth the Morte-stone, across the waste. And now, may Saint Cuthbert and Saint Bede have us in their blessed care, Amen!"