ncient
charter gone, it bleeds 'neath a pale-cheeked tyrant's sway--a pallid
man who laughs soft-voiced to see men die, and smiles upon their
anguish. O Belsaye, grievous are thy wrongs since Ivo came five years
agone and gave thee up to pillage and to ravishment. O hateful day! O
day of shame! What sights I saw--what sounds I heard--man-groans and
screams of women to rend high heaven and shake the throne of God,
methinks. I see--I hear them yet, and must forever. Jesu, pity!" and
leaning against a tree near by, the stalwart friar shivered violently
and hid his eyes.

"Why, good brother Martin," said Beltane, setting an arm about him,
"doth memory pain thee so, indeed? good Brother Martin, be comforted--"

"Nay, nay--'tis past, but--O my son, I--had a sister!" said the good
friar, and groaned. Yet in a while he raised his head and spake again:
"And when Duke Ivo had wrought his will upon the city, he builded the
great gibbet yonder and hanged it full with men cheek by jowl, and left
Sir Gui the cruel with ten score chosen men for garrison. But the men
of Belsaye have stubborn memories; Sir Gui and his butchers slumber in
a false security, for stern men are they and strong, and wait but God's
appointed time. Pray God that time be soon!"

"Amen!" said Beltane. Now, even as he spake came the sound of a distant
tucket, the great gates of Belsaye swung wide, and forth rode a company
of men-at-arms, their bascinets agleam 'neath the moon.

"Now!" spake the friar, "and you are for Belsaye, my brother, follow
me; I know a way--albeit a moist way and something evil--but an you
will follow,--come!" So saying Friar Martin set off among the trees,
and Beltane, beckoning to the others, followed close. Fast strode the
friar, his white robe fluttering on before, through moonlight and
shadow, until they reached a brook or freshet that ran bubbling betwixt
flowery banks; beside this strode the tall friar, following its winding
course, until before them, amid the shadow--yet darker than the shadow
--loomed high an embattled flanking tower of the walls of Belsaye town;
but ever before them flitted the friar's white gown, on and on until
the freshet became a slow-moving river, barring their advance--a broad
river that whispered among the reeds on the one side and lapped against
rugged wall on the other.

Here the friar stayed to glance from gloomy wall and turret to fast
waning moon on their left, then, girding up his gown, he stepped