e, master."

In a while Beltane arose and going from bed to bed spake with each and
every, and went his way, leaving Orson and Jenkyn to their
recriminations.

Being come back into the refectory, he found Friar Martin yet busied
with the preparations of his cooking, and seating himself upon the
great table hard by, fell to a profound meditation, watched ever and
anon by the friar's kindly eyes: so very silent and thoughtful was he
that the friar presently looked up from slicing and cutting his
vegetables and spake with smile wondrous tender:

"Wherefore so pensive, my son?"

"Good father, I think and dream of--red roses!"

Friar Martin cut and trimmed a leek with great care, yet surely here
was no reason for his eyes to twinkle within the shadow of his white
cowl.

"A sweet and fragrant thought, my son!" quoth he.

"As sweet, methinks, holy father, as pure and fragrant as she herself!"

"'She,' my son?"

"As Helen, good friar, as Helen the Beautiful, Duchess of Mortain!"

"Ah!" sighed the friar, and forthwith popped the leek into the pot. "I
prithee, noble son, reach me the salt-box yonder!"

CHAPTER LXVI

CONCERNING A BLUE CAMLET CLOAK

Next morning, ere the sun was up, came Beltane into the minster and
hiding within the deeper gloom of the choir, sat there hushing his
breath to listen, trembling in eager anticipation. Slowly amid the
dimness above came a glimmer from the great window, a pale beam that
grew with dawn until up rose the sun and the window glowed in many-hued
splendour.

And in a while to Beltane's straining senses came the faint creak of a
door, a soft rustle, the swift light tread of feet, and starting forth
of his lurking place he stepped forward with yearning arms
outstretched--then paused of a sudden beholding her who stood at gaze,
one slender foot advanced and white hands full of roses and lilies, one
as fair, as sweet and pure as the fragrant blooms she bore. Small was
she and slender, and of a radiant loveliness, red of lip and grey-eyed:
now beholding Beltane thus suddenly, she shrank and uttered a soft cry.

"Nay," quoth he, "fear me not, sweet maid, methought thee other than
thou art--I grieve that I did fright thee--forgive me, I pray," so
saying, he sighed and bowing full humbly, turned, but even so paused
again: "Thou art methinks the Reeve's fair daughter--thou art the lady
Genevra?" he questioned.

"Aye, my lord."

"Then, an thou dost love, gentle maid, heaven