“Of gentle Beltane I will tell,
   A knight who did all knights excel,
   Who loved of all men here below
   His faithful Giles that bare the bow;
   For Giles full strong and straight could shoot,
   A goodly man was Giles to boot.

   A lusty fighter sure was Giles
   In counsel sage and full of wiles. 
   And Giles was handsome, Giles was young,
   And Giles he had a merry—­”

“How now, Roger, man—­wherefore interrupt me?”

“For that there be too many of Giles hereabouts, and one Giles talketh enough for twenty.  So will I to Walkyn that seldom talketh enough for one.”

So saying Roger arose, donned his shirt of mail and, buckling his sword about him, strode incontinent away.

And in a while Beltane arose also, and climbing one of the many precipitous paths, answered the challenge of sentinel and outpost and went on slow-footed as one heavy in thought, yet with eyes quick to heed how thick was the underbrush hereabouts with dead wood and bracken apt to firing.  Before him rose an upland crowned by a belt of mighty forest trees and beyond, a road, or rather track, that dipped and wound away into the haze of evening.  Presently, as he walked beneath this leafy twilight, he heard the luring sound of running water, and turning thither, laid him down where was a small and placid pool, for he was athirst.  But as he stooped to drink, he started, and thereafter hung above this pellucid mirror staring down at the face that stared up at him with eyes agleam ’neath lowering brows, above whose close-knit gloom a lock of hair gleamed snow-white amid the yellow.  Long stayed he thus, to mark the fierce curve of nostril, the square grimness of jaw and chin, and the lips that met in a harsh line, down-trending and relentless.  And gazing thus upon his image, he spake beneath his breath: 

“O lady!  O wilful Helen! thy soft white hand hath set its mark upon me; the love-sick youth is grown a man, meseemeth.  Well, so be it!” Thus saying, he laughed harshly and stooping, drank his fill.

Now as he yet lay beside the brook hearkening to its pretty babel, he was aware of another sound drawing nearer—­the slow plodding of a horse’s hoofs upon the road below; and glancing whence it came he beheld a solitary knight whose mail gleamed ’neath a rich surcoat and whose shield flamed red with sunset.  While Beltane yet watched this solitary rider, behold two figures that crouched in the underbrush growing beside the way; stealthy figures, that flitted from tree to tree and bush to bush, keeping pace with the slow-riding horseman; and as they came nearer, Beltane saw that these men who crouched and stole so swift and purposeful were Walkyn and Black Roger.  Near and nearer they drew, the trackers and the tracked, till they were come to a place where the underbrush fell away and cover there was none:  and here, very suddenly, forth leapt Roger with Walkyn at his heels; up reared the startled horse, and thereafter the knight was dragged from his saddle and Walkyn’s terrible axe swung aloft for the blow, but Black Roger turned and caught Walkyn’s arm and so they strove together furiously, what time the knight lay out-stretched upon the ling and stirred not.