times when I do yearn to find her--and there be times
when I do fear--"

"Fear, my lord?"

"Holy mother, I learned of her first as one false to her vows,
light-minded and fickle from her youth--"

"O hath there been none to speak thee good of her--in all these years?"

"There was Jolette, that folk did call a witch, and there is Sir
Benedict that doth paint her pure and noble as I would have her. Yet
would I know for myself, fain would I be sure ere we do meet, if she is
but the woman who bore me, or the proud and noble mother I fain would
love."

"Could'st not love her first and judge her after, my son? Could not her
very motherhood plead her cause with thee? Must she be weighed in the
balance ere thou yield her a son's respect and love? So many weary
years--'tis something hard, methinks! Nay, heed me not, my lord--seek
out thy mother, unbeknown--prove for thyself her worthiness or falsity,
prove for thyself her honour or her shame--'tis but just, aye, 'tis but
just in very truth. But I, beholding things with woman's eyes, know
only that a mother's love shrinketh not for any sin, but reacheth down
through shame and evil with sheltering arms outstretched--a holy thing,
fearless of sin, more lasting than shame and stronger than death
itself."

So saying, the lady Abbess rose and turned to look up at the lights
that burned within the tower.

"'Tis late, my lord," she sighed, "get thee now to thy rest, for I must
begone to my duty till the dawn. There be many sick, and good Sir
Bertrand lieth very nigh to death--he ne'er will see another dawn,
methinks, so needs must I away. Good night, sweet son, and in thy
prayers forget not thy--thy most unhappy mother!"

Then she lifted her hand and blessed him, and, ere he rose up from his
knees she set that white hand upon his bowed head and touched his
yellow hair--a light touch, furtive and shy, but a touch that was like
to a caress.

Thereafter, Beltane, coming into his hut of woven wattle, rolled
himself in his weather-worn mantle and presently fell to slumber.

CHAPTER LIX

TELLETH HOW SIR BENEDICT WENT A-FISHING

Next day Sir Bertrand died of his hurts, so they buried him beside
young Sir John of Griswold and sturdy old Hubert of Erdington and a
hundred and twenty and five others of their company who had fallen in
that desperate affray; therefore tarried they a while what time their
sick and wounded grew towards health and strength by reason of the
skill