joyous
and sometimes hearkened with grizzled head a-droop, until a turn in the
glade hid them from sight.

Little by little, above the resinous fragrance of the fires rose other
scents more delectable to the nostrils of a hungry man, thus, waking
from his meditations Beltane turned him wistfully towards where, above
the nearest fire, a goodly cooking pot seethed and bubbled invitingly.
But even now a hand slipped within his arm and holding him thus, Sir
Benedict viewed him joyful-eyed and smiled on him his wry and twisted
smile.

"Beltane," said he, wagging his head, "O Beltane, thou wilt mind how
upon a time as I drank a bowl of milk with thee amid the green in
Mortain, I did warn thee that she had red hair and was like to prove a
spit-fire, therefore!"

Now hereupon my Beltane must needs catch his breath and flush to the
ears of him, and therewith strive to look at his ease, like the very
youth he was.

"How, messire, hath Roger babbled to thee?"

"Babbled?" quoth Sir Benedict, shaking his head, "nay, Roger is no
babbler of secret matters, for many do ken of thy love, Beltane--and I
am thy friend, so is thy happiness my happiness. Thus do I say God and
the sweet saints bless thee in thy love, dear lad, for a right noble
lady is Helen the Beautiful and meet to thine embracements. By her so
great love, by her proved faithfulness shalt thou yet win to
happiness--"

"Nay, dear my Benedict, first must Pentavalon win to peace."

"Aye, by Helen's noble love, for--"

"O Sir Benedict, I have sworn an oath!"

"Aye, sweet lad, but Roger hath prayed a prayer!"

"Hath he told thee so much, Benedict?"

"So much," quoth Sir Benedict, pressing his arm, "so much, O man, that
hereafter needs must I love thee and honour thee the more. Since man
art thou, my Beltane, for all thy so great youthfulness."

"Nay, Benedict, am none so youthful."

"Thy very speech doth prove thee so, yet, being boy, thou art forsooth
a man to-day."

"And wherefore?"

"For that to-day I do know more of thee. 'Tis suffering, 'tis sorrow
nobly borne doth make the man, Beltane."

"Suffering, messire?"

"Yon lock of hair showeth very white amid the gold, Beltane, but thou
art better man therefore, methinks. The fetters of thy dungeon yet
gleam upon thy wrists, Beltane. But truly I do think within thy prison
was forged the sword shall avenge our woes and free Pentavalon at
last."

"Think you indeed, thou wise Benedict, that we by grief and