finger.

"Behold!" he cried, "behold the head of Bloody Pertolepe!" Therewith he
laughed, and strove to kick it with feeble foot--but staggered instead,
and, loosing his axe, stretched wide his long arms and fell, face
downward.

"Bloody Pertolepe--is dead!" he cried, and choked; and choking--died.

CHAPTER LXX

WHICH SPEAKETH FOR ITSELF

It was not the piping of throstle or sweet-throated merle that had
waked my Beltane, who with slumberous eyes stared up at carven canopy,
round him upon rich arras, and down upon embroidered bed-covering and
silken pillow, while through the narrow lattice the young sun played
upon gilded roof-beam and polished floor. So lay Beltane, blinking
sleepy eyes and hearkening to a soft and melodious whistling from the
little garden below his casement.

Being thus heavy with sleep, he wondered drowsily what great content
was this that filled him, and wherefore? Wondering yet, he sighed, and
because of the sun's radiance, closed slumberous eyes again and would
have slept; but, of a sudden the whistling ceased, and a rich, sweet
voice fell to gentle singing.

"Hark! in the whisper of the wind
Love calleth thee away,
Each leaf a small, soft voice doth find,
Each pretty bird doth cry in kind,
O heart, haste north to-day."

Beltane sat up broad awake, for Blaen lay to the north, and in Blaen--
But Giles was singing on:

"Youth is quick to speed away,
But love abideth ever.
Fortune, though she smile to-day,
Fickle is and will not stay,
But true-love changeth never.

"The world doth change, as change it must,
But true-love changeth never.
Proud ambition is but dust,
The bow doth break, the sword doth rust,
But love abideth ever."

Beltane was leaning half out of the casement, of the which fact who so
unconscious as Giles, busily furbishing armour and bascinet.

"Giles!" he cried, "O Giles--rouse ye, man!"

"How, lord--art awake so early?" questioned Giles, looking up innocent
of eye.

"Was it not for this thou didst sing, rogue Giles? Go now, bid Roger
have three horses saddled, for within the hour we ride hence."

"To Mortain, lord?" questioned Giles eagerly.

"Aye, Giles, to Mortain--north to Blaen; where else should we ride
to-day?"

So saying, Beltane turned back into his sumptuous chamber and fell to
donning, not his habiliments of state, but those well-worn garments,
all frayed by his heavy mail. Swift dressed he and a