“Dogs!” said Beltane, clenching his hands, “will ye defy me then?  I say this knight shall go hence and none withstand him.  Make way, then—­or must I?” But now spake the youthful knight his gaze still bent upon the flame, nor seemed he to heed the fierce faces and eager steel that girt him round.  “Nay, messire, for here methinks my quest is ended!” “Thy quest, sir knight—­how so?” Then the knight turned and looked upon Beltane.  Quoth he:  “By thy size and knightly gear, by thy—­thy yellow hair, methinks thou art Beltane, son of Beltane the Strong?” “Verily, ’tis so that I am called.  What would you of me?” “This, messire.”  Herewith the stranger knight loosed belt and surcoat and drew forth a long sword whose broad blade glittered in the firelight, and gave its massy hilt to Beltane’s grasp.  And, looking upon its shining blade, Beltane beheld the graven legend “Resurgam.”  Now looking upon this, Beltane drew a deep, slow breath and turned upon the youthful knight with eyes grown suddenly fierce.  Quoth he softly:  “Whence had you this, sir knight?” “From one that liveth but for thee.”  “Ah!” said Beltane with scornful lip, “know ye such an one, in faith?” “Aye, messire,” spake the knight, low-voiced yet eager, “one that doth languish for thee, that hath sent me in quest of thee bearing this thy sword for a sign, and to bid thee to return since without thee life is an emptiness, and there is none so poor, so heart-sick and woeful as Helen of Mortain!” “Ah—­liar!” cried Beltane, and reaching out fierce hands crushed the speaker to his knees; but even so, the young knight spake on, soft-voiced and calm of eye:  “Greater than thine is her love for thee, methinks, since ’tis changeless and abiding—­Slay me an thou wilt, but while I live I will declare her true to thee.  Whatever hath chanced, whate’er may chance, despite all doubts and enemies she doth love—­love—­love thee through life till death and beyond.  O my lord Beltane—­” “Liar!” spake Beltane again.  But now was he seized of a madness, a cold rage and a deadly.  “Liar!” said he, “thou art methinks one of her many wooers, so art thou greater fool.  But Helen the Beautiful hath lovers a-plenty, and being what she is shall nothing miss thee:  howbeit thou art surely liar, and surely will I slay thee!” So saying he swung aloft the great blade, but even so the young knight fronted the blow with eyes that quailed not:  pale-lipped, yet smiling and serene; and then, or ever the stroke could fall—­an arm, bronzed and hairy, came between, and Roger spake hoarse-voiced:  “Master,” he cried, “for that thy man am I and love thee, shalt ne’er do this till hast first slain me.  ’Tis thus thou did’st teach me—­to show mercy to the weak and helpless, and this is a youth, unarmed.  Bethink thee, master—­O bethink thee!” Slowly Beltane’s arm sank, and looking upon the bright blade he let it fall upon the ling and covered his face within his two hands as if its glitter had blinded him.  Thus did he stand awhile, the fetters agleam