"Master, hast ever a pricking in the hairs of thy head?"

"Not I."

"Dost ever feel a tingling in the soles of thy feet?"

"Not so, in truth."

"Why then a shivering, quaking o' the back-bone?"

"Roger, man, what troubles thee now?"

"I do fear thou'rt be-devilled and moon-struck, master!"

"Why so?"

"Betimes thou dost smile upon the moon--for no reason; scowl upon the
earth--for no reason; work with thy lips yet speak no word, and
therewith do bite thy fingers-ends, clench thy fists--and all for no
reason. Moreover, thou'rt quick and slow in thy gait, sighing gustily
off and on--so it is I do sweat for thee."

"And wherefore?"

"Master," quoth Roger, glancing furtively about, "in my youth I did see
a goodly man be-devilled by horrid spells by an ancient hag that was a
noted witch, and he acted thus--a poor wight that was thereafter
damnably be-devilled into a small, black rabbit, see you--"

"Saw you all this indeed, Roger?"

"All but the be-devilling, master, for being young and sore frighted I
ran away and hid myself. But afterwards saw I the old woman with the
black rabbit in a cage--wherefore the vile hag was stoned to death, and
the black rabbit, that was her familiar, also--and very properly. And,
lord, because I do love thee, rather would I see thee dead than a
rabbit or a toad or lewd cur--wherefore now I pray thee cross thy
fingers and repeat after me--"

"Nay, my faithful Roger, never fear, here is no witchcraft. 'Tis but
that within the hour the blind doth see, the fool hath got him some
little wisdom."

"Master, how mean you?"

"This night, Roger, I have learned this great truth: that white can
never be black, nor day night, nor truth lie--and here is great matter
for thought, wherefore as I walk, I think."

Now hereupon Black Roger halted and looked upon Beltane glad-eyed.

"Lord," he cried, "is it that ye do know the very truth at last--of Sir
Fidelis--that glorious lady, thy Duchess Helen?"

"Aye, the very truth at last, Roger."

"Ha!--'tis so I petitioned the good Saint Cuthbert this very night!"

"And lo! he hath answered thy prayer, Roger."

"Verily he regardeth poor Roger these days, master, e'en though my belt
doth yet bear many accursed notches."

"They shall be fewer anon, Roger; there be many poor souls for thee to
save in woeful Pentavalon."

Hereafter went they a while in silence, until of a sudden Roger halted
and clapped hand to thigh.

"Master, we go the wron