the bed,
Beltane sank down thereon, and setting elbow to knee, rested his heavy
head upon his hand as one that fain would think.

"Helen!" he whispered, and so whispering, his strong fingers writhed
and clenched themselves within his yellow hair. And thus sat he all
that day, bowed forward upon his hand, his fingers tight-clenched
within his hair, staring ever at the square flagstone beneath his foot,
heedless alike of the coming and going of his gaoler or of the food set
out upon the bench hard by. Day grew to evening and evening to night,
yet still he sat there, mighty shoulders bowed forward, iron fingers
clenched within his hair, like one that is dead; in so much that his
gaoler, setting down food beside the other untasted dishes, looked upon
him in amaze and touched him.

"Oho!" said he, "wake up. Here be food, look ye, and, by Saint Crispin,
rich and dainty. And drink--good wine, wake and eat!"

Then Beltane's clutching fingers relaxed and he raised his head,
blinking in the rays of the lanthorn; and looking upon his rumpled
hair, the gaoler stared and peered more close.

Quoth he:

"Methought thou wert a golden man, yet art silver also, meseemeth."

"Fellow," said Beltane harsh-voiced and slow, "Troy town was burned,
and here was great pity, methinks, for 'twas a fair city. Yet to weep
o'er it these days were a fond madness. Come, let us eat!"

But as Beltane uprose in his jangling fetters, the gaoler, beholding
his face, backed to the door, and slamming it shut, barred and fast
bolted it, yet cast full many a glance behind as he hasted down the
winding stair.

Then Beltane ate and drank, and thereafter threw himself upon his
narrow couch, but his fetters jangled often in the dark. Thus as he
lay, staring upwards into the gloom, he was aware of the opening of the
iron-clamped door, and beheld his gaoler bearing a lanthorn and behind
him Sir Pertolepe leaning on the arm of his favourite esquire, who,
coming near, looked upon Beltane nodding right jovially.

"Messire Beltane," quoth he, "thou did'st dare set up thyself against
Ivo our lord the Duke--O fool! 'Tis said thou hast sworn to drive him
forth of Pentavalon--seeking her to wife, O fool of fools! Did'st
think, presumptuous rogue, that she--the glorious Helen--that Helen
the Beautiful, whom all men desire, would stoop to thee, an outcast--
wolf's head and outlaw that thou art? Did'st dare think so, forsooth?
To-morrow, belike, my lord Duke shall co