Quoth he: 

“What now?”

Whereat the jester, sitting cross-legged upon the floor, looked up at him and spake on this wise: 

“Two days agone as I walked me in the green, dreaming such foolish dreams as a fool may, there came, very suddenly, a sorry wight—­a wild man, very ragged—­who set me his ragged arm about my neck and a sharp dagger to my throat; and thus, looking him within the eyes, I knew him for that same Roger from whose hand thou did’st save me aforetime.  ‘Beda,’ says he, ’I am he that hanged and tortured men at my lord’s bidding:  I am Roger, and my sins be many.’  ‘Then prithee,’ says I, ’prithee, Roger, add not another to thy sins by cutting the throat of a fool.’  ‘Needs must I,’ says he, dolorous of voice, ’unless thou dost answer me two questions.’  ’Nay, I will answer thee two hundred an thou leave my throat unslit,’ says I.  ‘But two,’ says Roger, sighing.  ‘First, doth Pertolepe hold him I seek?’ ‘Him?’ says I.  ’Him they call Beltane?’ says Roger, ‘doth he lie prisoned within Garthlaxton?’ ’He doth,’ quoth I. Now for thine other question. ‘’Tis this,’ says Roger, ‘Wilt aid us to win him free?’ ‘Why look ye, Roger,’ says I, ’’Tis only a fool that seeketh aid of a fool—­and fool am I.’  ‘Aye,’ says Roger, ’but thou art a live fool; promise, therefore, or wilt be naught but a dead fool.’  ‘Roger,’ says I, ’thou did’st once try to slay me in the green ere now.’  ‘Aye,’ says Roger, ’and my lord Beltane saved thy carcass and my soul.’  ‘Aye,’ quoth I, ’and e’en a fool can repay.  So was I but now dreaming here within this boskage how I might perchance win this same Beltane to life without thy scurvy aid, Black Roger.  Moreover, methinks I know a way—­and thou spare me life to do it.’  ‘Aye, forsooth,’ says Roger, putting away his dagger, ’thou wert ever a fool of thy word, Beda—­so now do I spare thy life, and sparing it, I save it, and thus do I cut another accursed notch from my belt.’  ’Why, then,’ says I, ’to-morrow night be at the riven oak by Brankton Thicket an hour before dawn.’  ‘So be it, Beda,’ says he, and so I left him cutting at his belt.  And lo, am I here, and within an hour it should be dawn.  Follow, messire!” So saying, Beda rose, and taking the lanthorn, began to descend through the floor, having first shown how the flagstone must be lowered in place.  Thereafter, Beltane followed the jester down a narrow stair built in the thickness of the wall, and along a passage that ended abruptly, nor could Beltane see any sign of door in the solid masonry that barred their way.  Here Beda paused, finger on lip, and extinguished the lanthorn.  Then, in the dark a hinge creaked faintly, a quivering hand seized Beltane’s manacled wrist, drawing him on and through a narrow opening that yawned suddenly before them.  Thereafter the hinge creaked again and they stood side by side within a small chamber where was a doorway hung across with heavy curtains beyond which a light burned.  Now even as Beltane