Mortain shalt thou ride to-night--I pray thee mount!" cried he,
"Come--mount, I say!"

Standing tall and proud before him she sighed and spake deep-sorrowing:

"Then will I leave thee--an it must be so. But, in days to come,
mayhap, thou shalt grieve for this hour, Beltane, nor shall all thy
sighs nor all thy tears avail to bring it back again. Thou hast shamed
me oft, yet for all thy bitter scorns I do forgive thee, aye, even the
anguish of my breaking heart, for that my love doth rise beyond my
pain; and so, dear my lord--fare thee well!"

So she mounted, whereat the mettled charger must needs rear, and
Beltane, staggering aside, catch at a tree and lean there.

"Art sick, Beltane?" she cried in sudden fear--"how may I leave thee
thus--art sick!"

"Aye, Helen, for thy beauty. The devil is here, and I am here, so here
is no place for thee--so get thee gone, spur--spur! for despising thee
in my heart yet would I have thee stay: yet, an thou stay needs must I
slay thee ere the dawn and myself thereafter!"

Thus spake he, his voice loud, his speech quick and fevered.

"Indeed, thou'rt sick, my lord--nor do I fear thee, thou noble son of
noble father!"

"My father! Forsooth he liveth in Holy Cross Thicket within Mortain; he
bade me beware of women and the ways of women. So do I know thee witch,
thou golden Helen. Ha! must Troy burn again--I loved thee once, but
love is dead long since and turned corrupt--so get thee hence, Helen
the Wilful!"

"O, God pity thee, my Beltane, for thou dost love me yet, even as I
love thee--thou lonely man-child! God pity thee, and me also!" and,
crying thus, forlorn and desolate, the Duchess Helen rode upon her
solitary way.

Then turned Beltane and stumbled on he knew not whither, and betimes he
laughed loud and high and betimes he was shaken by great and fierce
sobs, yet found he never a tear. Thus, limping painfully, and stumbling
anon as one smitten blind, he wandered awhile, and so at length found
himself beside the little cave; and throwing himself down within its
shadows, tore away the bandages her gentle hands had wrought.

And lying there, it seemed that Fidelis yet lay beneath his arm, the
Fidelis who was no Fidelis; and in the shadows he laughed amain--wild
laughter that died of a sudden, choked by awful sobs, what time he
clenched his hands upon his throbbing ears; yet still, above the sounds
of his own anguish, needs must he hear again that forlorn and desolate
cry: