a, Cuthbert," quoth he, turning to one who rode at his elbow--a
slender youth who stared with evil eyes and sucked upon his finger,
"Aha, by the fiend, 'tis a sweet armful, Sir Squire?"

"Aye, my lord Pertolepe, 'tis rarely shaped and delicately fleshed!"
answered the esquire, and so fell to sucking his finger again.

"What, silly wench, will ye defy me still?" cried Sir Pertolepe, jovial
of voice, "must ye to the whip in sooth? Ho, Ralph--Otho, strip me this
stubborn jade--so!--Ha! verily Cuthbert, hast shrewd eyes, 'tis a
dainty rogue. Come," said he smiling down into the girl's wide, fierce
eyes, "save that fair body o' thine from the lash, now, and speak me
where is thy father and brother that I may do justice on them, along
with these other dogs, for the foul murder of my foresters yest're'en;
their end shall be swift, look ye, and as for thyself--shalt find those
to comfort thee anon--speak, wench!"

But now came a woman pale and worn, who threw herself on trembling
knees at Sir Pertolepe's stirrup, and, bowed thus before him in the
dust, raised a passionate outcry, supplicating his mercy with bitter
tears and clasped hands lifted heavenwards.

"O good my lord Pertolepe," she wailed, "'twas not my husband, nor son,
nor any man of our village wrought this thing; innocent are we, my
lord--"

"O witch!" quoth he, "who bade thee speak?" So saying he drew mail-clad
foot from stirrup and kicked her back into the dust. "Ho, whips!" he
called, "lay on, and thereafter will we hang these vermin to their own
roof-trees and fire their hovels for a warning."

But now, even as the struggling maid was dragged forward--even as
Pertolepe, smiling, settled chin on fist to watch the lithe play of her
writhing limbs, the willows behind him swayed and parted to a sudden
panther-like leap, and a mail-clad arm was about Sir Pertolepe--a
mighty arm that bore him from the saddle and hurled him headlong; and
thereafter Sir Pertolepe, half stunned and staring up from the dust,
beheld a great blade whose point pricked his naked throat, and, beyond
this blade, a mail-clad face, pallid, fierce, grim-lipped, from whose
blazing eyes death glared down at him.

"Dog!" panted Beltane.

"Ha! Cuthbert!" roared Red Pertolepe, writhing 'neath Beltane's
grinding heel, "to me, Cuthbert--to me!"

But, as the esquire wheeled upon Beltane with sword uplifted, out from
the green an arrow whistled, and Cuthbert, shrill-screaming, swayed in
his sadd