ne--for thee!"

"How mean you?"

"When he hath her safe, Duke Ivo, because he hath learned to fear thee
at last, will send envoys to thee demanding thou shalt yield up to him
the town of Belsaye and thy body to his mercy, or this fair and noble
lady Abbess shall be shamed and dishonoured, and know a death most
dire. And--ah! because thou art the man thou art, thou must needs yield
thyself to Ivo's cruel hands, and Belsaye to flame and ravishment."

"Not so," answered Beltane, frowning, "within Belsaye are many women
and children also, nor should these die that one might live, saintly
abbess though she be."

Now hereupon the witch Jolette raised herself, and set her two hands
passionately on Beltane's shoulders, and looked upon him great-eyed and
fearful.

"Ah, Beltane--Beltane, my lord!" she panted, "but that I am under a
vow, now could I tell thee a thing would fire thy soul to madness--but,
O believe, believe, and know ye this--when Duke Ivo's embassy shall
tell thee all, thou--shalt suffer them to take thee--thou shalt endure
bonds and shame and death itself. So now thou shalt swear to a dying
woman that thou wilt not rest nor stay until thou shalt free this lady
Abbess, for on her safety doth hang thy life and the freedom of
Pentavalon. Swear, O swear me this, my lord Beltane, so shall I die in
peace. Swear--O swear!"

Now, looking within her glowing eyes, feeling the tremble of her
passionate-pleading hands, Beltane bowed his head.

"I swear!" said he.

"So now may God hear--this thy oath, and I--die in peace--"

And saying this, Jolette sank in his arms and lay a while as one that
swoons; but presently her heavy eyes unclosed and on her lips there
dawned a smile right wondrous to behold, so marvellous tender was it.

"I pray thee, lord, unhelm--that I may see thee--once again--thy golden
hair--"

Wondering, but nothing speaking, Beltane laid by his bascinet, threw
back his mail-coif, and bent above her low and lower, until she might
reach up and touch those golden curls with failing hand.

"Lord Beltane!--boy!" she whispered, "stoop lower, mine eyes fail.
Hearken, O my heart! Even as thy strong arms do cradle me, so--have
these arms--held thee, O little Beltane, I--have borne thee oft upon my
heart--ere now. Oft have hushed thee to rosy sleep--upon this bosom.
'Twas from--these arms Sir Benedict caught thee on--that woeful day.
For I that die here--against thy heart, Beltane--am Jolette, thy
foster