ixt his knees, as he had been wont to do whiles yet a little child.

"Father," he murmured, "thou hast said." Now looking down upon this
golden head, Ambrose sighed and drew the long curls through his fingers
with a wondrous gentleness.

"Tell me of thy love, Beltane," said he.

Forthwith, starting to his feet, Beltane answered:

"'Tis many long and weary months, my father, and yet doth seem but
yesterday. She came to me riding upon a milk-white steed. At first
methought her of the fairy kind thither drawn by my poor singing, yet,
when I looked on her again, I knew her to be woman. And she was fair--
O very fair, my father. I may not tell her beauty for 'twas compounded
of all beauteous things, of the snow of lilies, the breath of flowers,
the gleam of stars on moving waters, the music of streams, the
murmur of wind in trees--I cannot tell thee more but that there is a
flame doth hide within her hair, and for her eyes--O methinks 'tis for
her eyes I do love her most--love her? Aye, my body doth burn and
thrill with love--alas, poor fool, alas it should be so! But, for that
she is proud and of an high estate, for that I am I, a poor worker of
iron whom men call Beltane the Smith, fit but to sigh and sigh and
forever sigh, to dream of her and nothing more--so must I go hence,
leaving the sweet silence of the woods for the strife and noise of
cities, learning to share the burdens of my fellows. See you not, my
father, see you not the way of it?" So spake Beltane, hot and
passionate, striding to and fro upon the sward, while Ambrose sat with
bitterness in his heart but with eyes ineffably gentle.

"And is this love of thine so hopeless, my Beltane?"

"Beyond all thought; she is the Duchess Helen of Mortain!"

Now for a while the hermit spake not, sitting chin in hand as one who
halts betwixt two courses.

"'Tis strange," he said at length, "and passing strange! Yet, since
'tis she, and she so much above thee, wherefore would ye leave the
tender twilight of these forests?"

Quoth Beltane, sighing:

"My father, I tell thee these woods be full of love and her. She
looketh at me from the flowers and stealeth to me in their fragrance;
the very brooks do babble of her beauty; each leaf doth find a little
voice to whisper of her, and everywhere is love and love and love--so
needs must I away."

"And think you so to escape this love, my Beltane, and the pain of it?"

"Nay my father, that were thing impossible for it d