squire and much-loved comrade, Benedict?"

"I was, Beltane."

"Knew you my mother well, also?"

"Thy mother? Why--aye, forsooth, I--knew thy mother--very well,
Beltane."

"What manner of woman was she, I pray?"

"The fairest and noblest these eyes have e'er beheld!"

"The--noblest?"

"And purest! Hark ye, Beltane, and mark me well--there ne'er lived wife
of so stainless honour as the noble woman that bare thee!"

"And yet," sighed Beltane, with wrinkled brow, "within the garden of
Pentavalon--my father--"

"Thy father was a sick man, faint with wounds and spent with hardship.
All that day, as we rode unto Pentavalon City, he and I, his mind oft
wandered and he held wild talk in his fever. But hale was I, mind and
body, and I do know the Duke thy father fell to strange and sudden
madness upon that dreadful day, whereby came woe to Pentavalon, and
bitter remorse to him. This do I swear, thy mother was noble wife and
saintly woman!"

"Loved she my father?"

"Aye, verily--she was his wife! Thy father was a noble knight and
peerless--and oft warring on the marches, but methinks--she was
something lonely--at times, Beltane."

"Alas!" sighed Beltane, and again "Alas!" So fell they incontinent to
deep thought and rode full long in silence. But ever and anon as they
paced along together thus, Sir Benedict must needs lift his head to
gaze upon my Beltane, and his grim lips curved to smile infinite
tender, and in his eyes was growing wonder.

Quoth he at last:

"Beltane, d'ye mark this our silent company, not a stave have they
carolled since we set forth! But how shall a man sing and jest whose
heart is set on great emprise? Verily thy words have fired e'en this
shrivelled heart o' mine till I, even as they, methinks, do burn to
fight Pentavalon's cause, to shield her from woeful shame and--ha!--
such vile sights as yon!"

Now looking where Sir Benedict pointed, Beltane beheld a thing,
crookedly contorted, a-dangle from a knotted branch that jutted athwart
the way, insomuch that the must needs stoop, cowering in his saddle,
lest he touch the twisted feet of it.

"Dead three days I judge!" mused Sir Benedict. "Much is possible to the
Red Pertolepe in three days. And he hath a great and powerful
following, 'tis said!"

Quoth Beltane, pale-cheeked and frowning a little:

"So would I have it, Benedict--they shall be the more for us to smite!"

"I've heard he musters full three thousand, Beltane."

"What the