“Ha!  Fool!” raged Walkyn, “loose my arm—­what would ye?”

“Shalt not slay him,” cried Roger, “’tis a notch—­’tis a notch from my accursed belt—­shalt not slay him, I tell thee!”

“Now out upon thee for a mad knave!” quoth Walkyn.

“Knave thyself!” roared Black Roger, and so they wrestled fiercely together; but, little by little, Walkyn’s size and bull strength began to tell, whereupon back sprang nimble Roger, and as Walkyn’s axe gleamed, so gleamed Roger’s sword.  But now as they circled warily about each other, seeking an opening for blow or thrust, there came a rush of feet, and Beltane leapt betwixt them, and bestriding the fallen knight, fronted them in black and bitter anger.

“Ha, rogues!” he cried, “art become thieves and murderers so soon, then?  Would’st shed each other’s blood for lust of booty like any other lawless knaves, forsooth?  Shame—­O shame on ye both!”

So saying, he stooped, and lifting the unconscious knight, flung him across his shoulder and strode off, leaving the twain to stare upon each other shame-faced.

Scowling and fierce-eyed Beltane descended into the hollow, whereupon up sprang Giles with divers others and would have looked upon and aided with the captive; but beholding Beltane’s frown they stayed their questions and stood from his path.  So came he to a certain cave hollowed within the hill-side—­one of many such—­but the rough walls of this cave Black Roger had adorned with a rich arras, and had prepared also a bed of costly furs; here Beltane laid the captive, and sitting within the mouth of the cave—­beyond which a fire burned—­fell to scowling at the flame.  And presently as he sat thus came Roger and Walkyn, who fain would have made their peace, but Beltane fiercely bade them to begone.

“Lord,” quoth Walkyn, fumbling with his axe, “we found this knight hard by, so, lest he should disclose the secret of this our haven—­I would have slain him—­”

“Master,” said Roger, “’tis true I had a mind to his horse and armour, since we do such things lack, yet would I have saved him alive and cut from my belt another accursed notch—­”

“So art thou a fool, Roger,” quoth Walkyn, “for an this knight live, this our refuge is secret no longer.”

“Ha!” sneered Beltane, “what matter for that an it shelter but murderers and thieving knaves—­”

“Dost name me murderer?” growled Walkyn.

“And me a thief, master?” sighed Roger, “I that am thy man, that would but have borrowed—­”

“Peace!” cried Beltane, “hence—­begone, and leave me to my thoughts!” Hereupon Walkyn turned and strode away, twirling his axe, but Roger went slow-footed and with head a-droop what time Beltane frowned into the fire, his scowl blacker than ever.  But as he sat thus, from the gloom of the cave behind him a voice spake—­a soft voice and low, at sound whereof he started and turned him about.

“Meseemeth thy thoughts are evil, messire.”