ddenly, hung the wallet to his girdle and thereafter arose.

In a while cometh gloomy Roger leading the destrier Mars, whereon
gloomy Beltane swung to saddle, and, looking round about him once and
twice, rode slowly towards where, beyond the shade of trees, the forest
road ran north and south.

But, as for Roger, needs must he pause upon the edge of the clearing to
look back at the little cave beneath the steep, whereby the small
water-brook flowed murmurously; a while he stood thus, to frown and
shake gloomy head; then lifted he his hand on high, much as he had bid
one sorrowful farewell, and, turning about, trudged away after his
lord.

CHAPTER XLIX

HOW BELTANE FOUND PEACE AND A GREAT SORROW

It had been an evening of cloud, but now the sky was clear and the moon
shone bright and round as they reached that desolate, wind-swept heath
that went by the name of Hangstone Waste, a solitary place at all
times but more especially wild and awful 'neath the ghostly moon;
wherefore Roger went wide-eyed and fearful, and kept fast hold of
Beltane's stirrup.

"Ha--master, master!" cried he 'twixt chattering teeth, "did'st not
hear it, master?"

"Nay," answered Beltane, checking his horse, "what was it? where away?"

"'Twas a cry, master--beyond the marsh yonder. 'Tis there again!"

"'Twas an owl, Roger."

"'Twas a soul, master, a poor damned soul and desolate! We shall see
dire and dreadful sights on Hangstone Waste this night, master--holy
Saint Cuthbert! What was yon?"

"Nought but a bat, Roger."

"A bat, lord? Never think so. Here was, belike, a noble knight or a
lusty fellow be-devilled into a bat. Good master, let us go no further
--if thou hast no thought for thyself, have a little heed for poor
Roger."

"Why look ye, good Roger, canst go where thou wilt, but, as for me, I
ride for the White Morte-stone."

"Nay then, an thou'rt blasted this night, master, needs must I be
blasted with thee--yonder lieth the Morte-stone, across the waste. And
now, may Saint Cuthbert and Saint Bede have us in their blessed care,
Amen!"

So they began to cross the rolling desolation of the heath and
presently espied a great boulder, huge and solitary, gleaming white and
ghostly 'neath the moon.

Being come very nigh, Beltane checked his horse and was about to
dismount, when Roger, uttering a sudden gasping cry, cowered to his
knees, for in the air about them was a sound very sweet to hear--the
whisper of lute-string