“Item:  goeth in chain-mail, and about his middle a broad belt of gold and silver.  Item:  beareth a great sword whereon is graven the legend—­ lady, dost thou attend?—­Ha!  Saint Martin aid us!” cried Godric, for now, following the Duchess’s glance, he beheld Beltane leaning upon his long sword.  Then, while Godric stared open-mouthed, the Duchess looked on Beltane, a new light in her eyes and with hands tight clasped, while Beltane looking upon her sighed amain.

“Helen!” he cried, “O Helen, ’tis true that I who am Beltane the Smith, am likewise son of Beltane, Duke of Pentavalon.  Behold, the sword I bear is the sword of the Duke my father, nor must I lay it by until wrong is vanquished and oppression driven hence.  Thus, see you, I may not stay to love, within my life it must not be—­yet-a-while,” and speaking, Beltane groaned and bowed his head.  So came she to him and looked on him with eyes of yearning, yet touched him not.

“Dear my lord,” said she, tender-voiced, “thou should’st make a noble duke, methinks:  and yet alas! needs must I love my gentle Beltane the Smith.  And I did love him so!  Thou art a mighty man-at-arms, my lord, and terrible in war, meseemeth, O—­methinks thou wilt make a goodly duke indeed!”

“Mayhap,” he answered heavily, “mayhap, an God spare me long enough.  But now must I leave thee—­”

“Aye, but wherefore?”

“Thou hast heard—­I am a hunted man with a price upon my head, by my side goeth death—­”

“So will I go also,” she murmured, “ever and always beside thee.”

“Thou?  Ah, not so, beloved.  I must tread me this path alone.  As for thee—­haste, haste and get thee to Mortain and safety, and there wait for me—­pray for me, O my love!”

“Beltane—­Beltane,” she sighed, “dost love me indeed—­and yet would send me from thee?”

“Aye,” he groaned, “needs must it be so.”

“Beltane,” she murmured, “Beltane, thou shalt be Duke within the week, despite Black Ivo.”

“Duke—­I?  Of Pentavalon?”

“Of Mortain!” she whispered, “an thou wilt wed me, my lord.”

“Nay,” stammered Beltane, “nay, outcast am I, my friends very few—­to wed thee thus, therefore, were shame—­”

“To wed me thus,” said she, “should be my joy, and thy joy, and Pentavalon’s salvation, mayhap.  O, see you not, Beltane?  Thou should’st be henceforth my lord, my knight-at-arms to lead my powers ’gainst Duke Ivo, teaching Mortain to cringe no more to a usurper—­to free Pentavalon from her sorrows—­ah, see you not, Beltane?”

“Helen!” he murmured, “O Helen, poor am I—­a beggar—­”

“Beltane,” she whispered, “an thou wed this lonely maid within the forest, then will I be beggar with thee; but, an thou take to wife the Duchess, then shalt thou be my Duke, lord of me and of Mortain, with her ten thousand lances in thy train.”

“Thou would’st give me so much,” he sighed at last, “so much, my Helen?”