intly, striving to kiss his hand,
"death is none so--painful, so grieve not thine heart for me, sweet
son. And how may a mother--die better than for her own--beloved son?
Beltane, if God--O if God in His infinite mercy--shall think me worthy
--to be--one of His holy angels, then will I be ever near thee when thy
way proveth dark--to comfort thee--to aid thee. O dear my son--I
sought thee so long--so long--'tis a little hard to leave thee--so
soon. But--God's will--fare thee well, I die--aye--this is death,
methinks. Beltane, tell thy father that I--O--dear my--my Beltane--"

So died the gracious lady Abbess that had been the proud Yolande,
Duchess of Pentavalon, wept and bemoaned by full many who had known
her tender care; and, in due season, she was laid to rest within the
fair Minster of Belsaye. And thereafter, Beltane took to his bed and
abode there many days because of his wounds and by reason of his so
great sorrow and heart-break.

But, that night, through the dark hours was strange stir and hum beyond
the walls of Belsaye, and, when the dawn broke, many a stout heart
quailed and many a cheek blanched to see a great camp whose fortified
lines encompassed the city on all sides, where lay Ivo the Black Duke
to besiege them.

CHAPTER LXIII

TELLETH SOMEWHAT OF THE WOES OF GILES O' THE BOW

Six days and nights my Beltane kept his bed, seeing and speaking to no
man; and it is like he would have died but for the fostering care of
the good Friar Martin who came and went softly about him, who watched
and tended and prayed over him long and silently but who, perceiving
his heart-sickness, spake him not at all. Day in and day out Beltane
lay there, heedless of all but his great sorrow, sleeping little and
eating less, his face hid in his pillow or turned to the wall, and in
all this time he uttered no word nor shed a single tear.

His wounds healed apace but his soul had taken a deeper hurt, and day
and night he sorrowed fiercely for his noble mother, wherefore he lay
thus, heeding nought but his great grief. But upon the seventh night,
he dreamed she stood beside his couch, tall and fair and gracious, and
looked down on him, the mother-love alight within her sweet, sad eyes.
Now within her hand she bare his sword and showed him the legend graven
upon the bright steel:

RESURGAM

And therewith she smiled wondrous tender and put the great weapon into
his grasp; then stooped and kissed him, and, pointing upwa