Pentavalon that was: Item--"

"Beltane!" said the Duchess, and started.

"Item: he is very tall and marvellous strong. Item: hath yellow hair--"

"Yellow hair!" said the Duchess, and turned to look upon Beltane.

"Item: goeth in chain-mail, and about his middle a broad belt of gold
and silver. Item: beareth a great sword whereon is graven the legend--
lady, dost thou attend?--Ha! Saint Martin aid us!" cried Godric, for
now, following the Duchess's glance, he beheld Beltane leaning upon his
long sword. Then, while Godric stared open-mouthed, the Duchess looked
on Beltane, a new light in her eyes and with hands tight clasped, while
Beltane looking upon her sighed amain.

"Helen!" he cried, "O Helen, 'tis true that I who am Beltane the Smith,
am likewise son of Beltane, Duke of Pentavalon. Behold, the sword I
bear is the sword of the Duke my father, nor must I lay it by until
wrong is vanquished and oppression driven hence. Thus, see you, I may
not stay to love, within my life it must not be--yet-a-while," and
speaking, Beltane groaned and bowed his head. So came she to him and
looked on him with eyes of yearning, yet touched him not.

"Dear my lord," said she, tender-voiced, "thou should'st make a noble
duke, methinks: and yet alas! needs must I love my gentle Beltane the
Smith. And I did love him so! Thou art a mighty man-at-arms, my lord,
and terrible in war, meseemeth, O--methinks thou wilt make a goodly
duke indeed!"

"Mayhap," he answered heavily, "mayhap, an God spare me long enough.
But now must I leave thee--"

"Aye, but wherefore?"

"Thou hast heard--I am a hunted man with a price upon my head, by my
side goeth death--"

"So will I go also," she murmured, "ever and always beside thee."

"Thou? Ah, not so, beloved. I must tread me this path alone. As for
thee--haste, haste and get thee to Mortain and safety, and there wait
for me--pray for me, O my love!"

"Beltane--Beltane," she sighed, "dost love me indeed--and yet would
send me from thee?"

"Aye," he groaned, "needs must it be so."

"Beltane," she murmured, "Beltane, thou shalt be Duke within the week,
despite Black Ivo."

"Duke--I? Of Pentavalon?"

"Of Mortain!" she whispered, "an thou wilt wed me, my lord."

"Nay," stammered Beltane, "nay, outcast am I, my friends very few--to
wed thee thus, therefore, were shame--"

"To wed me thus," said she, "should be my joy, and thy joy, and
Pentavalon's salvation, mayhap. O, see you not, Beltane