il awhile."

Forthwith Beltane brought her a stool, rough and rudely fashioned, and
while she sat, he lay beside her in the firelight; and thus, despite
her hood and wimple, he saw her face was of a calm and noble beauty,
smooth and unwrinkled despite the silver hair that peeped forth of her
loosened hood. A while they sat thus, nothing speaking, he viewing her,
she gazing ever on the fire; at last:

"Thou'rt young, messire," she said wistfully, "yet in thy life hath
been much of strife, I've heard. Thou hast known much of hardship, my
son, and sorrow methinks?"

"So do I live for that fair day when Peace shall come again, noble
lady."

"Full oft have I heard tell of thee, my son, strange tales and
marvellous. Some do liken thee to a demon joying in slaughter, and
some to an archangel bearing the sword of God."

"And how think you, reverend mother?"

"I think of thee as a man, my son. I have heard thee named 'outlaw' and
'lawless ravener,' and some do call thee 'Beltane the Smith.' Now
wherefore smith?"

"For that smith was I bred, lady."

"But thou'rt of noble blood, lord Beltane."

"Yet knew I nought of it until I was man grown."

"Thy youth--they tell me--hath been very lonely, my son--and desolate."

"Not desolate, for in my loneliness was the hermit Ambrose who taught
me many things and most of all, how to love him. So lived I in the
greenwood, happy and content, until on a day this saintly Ambrose told
me a woeful tale--so did I know this humble hermit for the noble Duke,
my father."

"Thy father! The Duke! A hermit! Told he of--all his sorrows, my son?"

"All, reverend mother, and thereafter bade me beware the falsity of
women."

The pale cheek of the Abbess grew suddenly suffused, the slim hand
clenched rigid upon the crucifix at her bosom, but she stirred not nor
lifted her sad gaze from the fire.

"Liveth thy father yet, my son?"

"'Tis so I pray God, lady."

"And--thy mother?"

"'Tis so I've heard."

"Pray you not for--for her also?"

"I never knew my mother, lady."

"Alas! poor lonely mother! So doth she need thy prayers the more. Ah,
think you she hath not perchance yearned with breaking heart for her
babe? To have kissed him into rosy slumber! To have cherished his
boyish hurts and sorrows! To have gloried in his youthful might and
manhood! O sure there is no sorrow like the loneliness of desolate
motherhood. Would'st seek this unknown mother, lord Beltane?"

"Truly there be