“Wait here, my lord,” said Winfrida, “so will I go prepare my lady, Friar Angelo doth stay to do his holy office.”  So speaking, Winfrida turned and was gone.  Then Beltane came unto the altar and, kneeling there, leaned his heavy head upon the fair white altar cloth, and kneeling thus, fell asleep—­The altar beneath him seemed of a sudden riven and split asunder and, while he gazed, behold the fair white altar cloth grew fouled and stained with blood—­new blood, that splashed down red upon the white even as he watched.  Then did Beltane seek to rise up from his knees, but a heavy weight bore him ever down, and hands huge and hairy gripped him fierce and strong.  But beholding these merciless hands, a sudden mighty rage came upon Beltane, and struggling up, he stood upon his feet and drew sword; but the fierce hands had crept up to his naked throat, cutting off his breath, the sword was dashed from his loosening grasp, the weight about him grew too much for his strength, it bore him down and down into a pitchy gloom where all was very still.  A wind, sweet and cool, breathed upon his cheek, grass was below and trees above him, shadowy trees beyond which a pallid moon rose high, very placid and serene.  Now as Beltane stared heavenward the moon was blotted out, a huge and hairy face looked down in his, and hairy hands lifted him with mighty strength.  Then Beltane thought to see the Duchess Helen standing by in her gown of blue and silver—­

“Helen!” he whispered.

But she paid no heed, busied in fastening about her the nun’s long cloak that veiled her down from head to foot.  So the mighty arms that held Beltane bore him to a horse near by and across this horse he was flung; thereafter the monster mounted also, and they moved off amid the trees.  Thus was Beltane borne from Blaen upon his wedding night—­dazed, bleeding and helpless in his bonds.  Yet even so, ever as they went he watched her who rode near by, now in moonlight, now in shadow, so youthful and shapely, but with hood drawn low as she had worn it when he bore her through the forest in his arms.

And ever as they went he watched the pale gleam of her hand upon the bridle, or her little foot in its embroidered shoe, or the fold of her blue gown with its silver needle-work.  And ever the trouble in his dazed brain grew the deeper; once, as they crossed a broad glade she rode up close beside him, and beneath her hood he saw a strand of her glorious hair, bright under the moon.

Then did he writhe and struggle in his bonds.

“Helen!” he cried, “O Helen!” ...

But a great hand, coarse and hairy, came upon his mouth, stopping the cry and choking him to silence.

So they bore my Beltane southwards through the misty woods, on and ever on, till with the dawn they were come to a castle great and very strong, where battlement and tower frowned upon the paling stars.

But with the dawn, ’mid the gloom of the little chapel of Blaen, came one who stood, haggard and pallid as the dawn, to stare wild-eyed upon a great sword and upon a torn and blood-stained altar-cloth; and so gazing, she shrank away back and back, crouching down amid the gloom.  When at last the sun arose, it glittered on a long broad blade, across which, upon the rough pavement, lay one very silent and very still, amid the tumbled glory of her hair.