t base and lying babble
do ye speak? Helen, forsooth--dare ye name her, O Thing?"

Now before Beltane's swift and blazing anger the Pardoner's assurance
wilted on the instant, and he cowered behind a lifted elbow.

"Nay, nay, most potent lord," he stammered, "spit on me an ye will--
spit, I do implore thee, but strike me not. Beseech thee sir, in what
do I offend? The story runs that the proud and wilful lady is fled
away, none know wherefore, why, nor where. I do but read the riddle
thus: wherefore should she flee but for love, and if for love, then
with a man, and if with a man--"

"Enough of her!" quoth Beltane scowling, "woman and her wiles is of
none account to me!"

"How--how?" gasped the Pardoner, "of no account--! Woman--! But thou'rt
youthful--of no account--! Thou'rt a man very strong and lusty--! Of no
account, forsooth? O, Venus, hear him! Woman, forsooth! She is man's
aim, his beginning and oft-times his end. She is the everlasting cause.
She is man's sweetest curse and eke salvation, his slave, his very
tyrant. Without woman strife would cease, ambition languish, Venus pine
to skin and bone (sweet soul!) and I never sell another pardon and
starve for lack of custom; for while women are, so will be pardoners.
But this very week I did good trade in fair Belsaye with divers women--
three were but ordinary indulgences for certain small marital
transgressions; but one, a tender maid and youthful, being put to the
torment, had denounced her father and lover--"

"The torment?" quoth Beltane, starting. "The torment, say you?"

"Aye, messire! Belsaye setteth a rare new fashion in torments of late.
Howbeit, the father and lover being denounced before Sir Gui's
tribunal, they were forthwith hanged upon my lord Gui's new gibbets--"

"O--hanged?" quoth Beltane "hanged?"

"Aye, forsooth, by the neck as is the fashion. Now cometh this woeful
wench to me vowing she heard their voices i' the night, and, to quiet
these voices besought of me a pardon. But she had but two sorry silver
pieces and pardons be costly things, and when she could get no pardon,
she went home and that night killed herself--silly wench! Ha! my lord--
good messire--my arm--holy saints! 'twill break!"

"Killed herself--and for lack of thy pitiful, accursed pardon! Heard
you aught else in Belsaye--speak!" and Beltane's cruel grip tightened.

"Indeed--indeed that will I, good news, sweet news--O my lord, loose
my arm!"

"Thine arm, good Pardo