e, but I do so, lady, since I have other and greater works yet to
achieve."

"How, messire, is it so small a thing to have saved a nun--even though
she be neither old, nor wrinkled, nor toothless?" And behold, the nun's
meek head was high and proud, her humility forgotten quite.

Then she frowned, and 'neath her sombre draperies her foot fell
a-tapping; a small foot, dainty and slender in its gaily broidered shoe,
so much at variance with her dolorous habit. But Beltane recked nought
of this, for, espying a narrow window in the opposite wall, he came
thither and thrusting his head without, looked down upon the sleeping
camp. And thus he saw that Sir Gilles' men were few indeed, scarce
three-score all told he counted as they lay huddled about the
smouldering watch-fires, deep-slumbering as only men greatly wearied
might. Even the sentinels nodded at their posts, and all was still save
for the rush of a sudden wind-gust, or the snort and trampling of the
horses. And leaning thus, Beltane marked well where the sentinels
lolled upon their pikes, or marched drowsily to and fro betwixt the
watch-fires, and long he gazed where the horses were tethered, two
swaying, trampling lines dim-seen amid the further shadows. Now being
busied measuring with his eye the distances 'twixt sentinel and
sentinel, and noting where the shadows lay darkest, he was suddenly
aware of the nun close beside him, of the feel of her, soft and warm
against him, and starting at the contact, turned to find her hand,
small and white, upon his mailed arm.

"Sweet son," said she soft-voiced, from the shadow of her sombre hood,
"thy reverend mother now would chide thee, for that having but short
while to live, thou dost stand thus mumchance, staring upon vacancy--
for, with the dawn, we die."

Quoth Beltane, deeply conscious of the slender hand:

"To die, nay--nay--thou'rt too young and fair to die--"

Sighed she, with rueful smile:

"Thou too art neither old nor cold, nor bent with years, fair son. Come
then, till death let us speak together and comfort each other. Lay by
thy melancholy as I now lay by this hood and wimple, for the night is
hot and close, methinks."

"Nay, lady, indeed 'tis cool, for there is much wind abroad," says
Beltane, my Innocent. "Moreover, while standing here, methinks I have
seen a way whereby we may win free--"

Now hereupon she turned and looked on him, quick-breathing and with
eyes brim-full of fear.

"Messire!" she