'tis a lie--O dear my lord--'tis lie most foul--!"

"In witness whereof behold upon my wrists the shameful irons from my
dungeon--"

"Alas! here was no work of Helen's--no thought, no will--Helen would
have died to save thee this--"

"So, Fidelis, do I scorn all women that do live upon this earth
henceforth--but, above all, Helen the Beautiful! the Wilful! who in her
white bosom doth bear a heart more foul than Trojan Helen, that was a
woman false and damned. So now, all's said."

Now fell Sir Fidelis upon his knees and spake quick and passionate:

"Nay, Beltane, hear me! For now do I swear that he who told thee 'twas
Helen wrought thee this vile wrong--who told thee this doth lie--O,
doth lie! Now do I swear that never by word or thought or deed, hath
she been false to thee--I do swear she loveth thee--ah, spurn me not--
O, believe--"

"Enough--enough, good Fidelis, perjure not thy sweet youth for one so
much unworthy, for with these eyes did I behold her as they bore me in
my bonds--and shall I not believe mine eyes?"

"Never--ah! never, when they do shew thee Helen false and cruel to
thee! Here was some vile magic--witchcraft--"

"Enough, Fidelis, 'tis past and done. Here was a woman false--well,
'tis none so singular--there have been others--there will be others.
So, God keep thee, sweet youth, from the ways of women. Nay, let us
speak of this no more, for in sooth I grow a-weary and we must ride
with the dawn to-morrow. So, betake thee to thy rest, nor grieve thee
for my sorrows past and done--mayhap they shall be things to smile upon
one day."

So saying, Beltane sighed, and laid him down among the bracken and
thereafter Fidelis did the like; the fire sank and waned, and oft Sir
Fidelis stirred restless in the shadows; the river murmured
slumberously among the sedge, but Beltane, hearkening with drowsy ears,
oft thought to hear another sound, very soft and repressed yet very
dolorous, ere, worn and spent, and something weakened by wound and loss
of blood, he sank at last to deep and gentle sleep.

But in his sleep he dreamed that one knelt above him in the dark,
keeping watch upon his slumbers in the attitude of one in prayer--one
whom he knew, yet knew not; it seemed to Beltane in his dream, that
this silent, slender shape, stooped of a sudden, low and lower, to kiss
the iron fetters that bound his wrists; then Beltane strove to wake yet
could not wake, but in his slumber sighed a name, soft-breathed