Christ of Pity, look down upon this stricken soul, be Thou his stay
and comfort. Teach him, in his grief and sorrow, to pity the woes of
others, that, in comforting his fellows, he may himself find comfort."

Now when the prayer was ended he turned and looked upon the others,
and, beholding Beltane in his might and glittering mail, he spake,
saluting him as one of rank.

"Sir Knight," said he, "do these men follow thee?"

"Aye, verily," cried the archer, "that do I in sooth--_Verbum sat
sapienti_--good friar."

"Not so," growled Roger, "'tis but a pestilent archer that seeketh but
base hire. I only am my lord's man, sworn to aid him in his vow." "I
also," quoth Walkyn, "an so my lord wills?"

"So shall it be," sighed Beltane, his hand upon his throbbing brow.

"And what have ye in mind to do?"

"Forsooth," cried Giles, "to fight, good friar, _manibus pedibusque_."

"To obey my lord," said Roger, "and speak good Saxon English."

"To adventure my body in battle with joyful heart," quoth Walkyn.

"To make an end of tyranny!" sighed Beltane.

"Alas!" said the friar, "within this doleful Duchy be tyrants a many,
and ye are but four, meseemeth; yet if within your hearts be room for
pity--follow me, and I will show you a sight, mayhap shall nerve you
strong as giants. Come!"

So Beltane followed the white friar with the three upon his heels who
wrangled now no more; and in a while the friar paused beside a new-digged
grave.

"Behold," said he, "the bed where we, each one, must sleep some day,
and yet 'tis cold and hard, methinks, for one so young and tender!" So
saying he sighed, and turning, brought them to a hut near by, an humble
dwelling of mud and wattles, dim-lighted by a glimmering rush. But,
being come within the hut Beltane stayed of a sudden and held his
breath, staring wide-eyed at that which lay so still: then, baring his
head, sank upon his knees.

She lay outstretched upon a bed of fern, and looked as one that sleeps
save for the deathly pallor of her cheek and still and pulseless bosom:
and she was young, and of a wondrous, gentle beauty.

"Behold," said the friar, "but one short hour agone this was alive--a
child of God, pure of heart and undefiled. These gentle hands lie
stilled forever: this sweet, white body (O shame of men!) blasted by
brutality, maimed and torn--is nought but piteous clay to moulder in
the year. Yet doth her radiant soul lie on the breast of God forever,
since she, for h