“Nay, nay, most potent lord,” he stammered, “spit on me an ye will—­ spit, I do implore thee, but strike me not.  Beseech thee sir, in what do I offend?  The story runs that the proud and wilful lady is fled away, none know wherefore, why, nor where.  I do but read the riddle thus:  wherefore should she flee but for love, and if for love, then with a man, and if with a man—­”

“Enough of her!” quoth Beltane scowling, “woman and her wiles is of none account to me!”

“How—­how?” gasped the Pardoner, “of no account—!  Woman—!  But thou’rt youthful—­of no account—!  Thou’rt a man very strong and lusty—!  Of no account, forsooth?  O, Venus, hear him!  Woman, forsooth!  She is man’s aim, his beginning and oft-times his end.  She is the everlasting cause.  She is man’s sweetest curse and eke salvation, his slave, his very tyrant.  Without woman strife would cease, ambition languish, Venus pine to skin and bone (sweet soul!) and I never sell another pardon and starve for lack of custom; for while women are, so will be pardoners.  But this very week I did good trade in fair Belsaye with divers women—­ three were but ordinary indulgences for certain small marital transgressions; but one, a tender maid and youthful, being put to the torment, had denounced her father and lover—­”

“The torment?” quoth Beltane, starting.  “The torment, say you?”

“Aye, messire!  Belsaye setteth a rare new fashion in torments of late.  Howbeit, the father and lover being denounced before Sir Gui’s tribunal, they were forthwith hanged upon my lord Gui’s new gibbets—­”

“O—­hanged?” quoth Beltane “hanged?”

“Aye, forsooth, by the neck as is the fashion.  Now cometh this woeful wench to me vowing she heard their voices i’ the night, and, to quiet these voices besought of me a pardon.  But she had but two sorry silver pieces and pardons be costly things, and when she could get no pardon, she went home and that night killed herself—­silly wench!  Ha! my lord—­ good messire—­my arm—­holy saints! ’twill break!”

“Killed herself—­and for lack of thy pitiful, accursed pardon!  Heard you aught else in Belsaye—­speak!” and Beltane’s cruel grip tightened.

“Indeed—­indeed that will I, good news, sweet news—­O my lord, loose my arm!”

“Thine arm, good Pardoner—­thine arm?  Aye, take it back, it availeth me nothing—­take it and cherish it.  To part with a pardon for but two silver pieces were a grave folly!  So pray you forgive now my ungentleness and speak my thy good, sweet tidings.”  But hereupon, the Pardoner feeling his arm solicitously, held his peace and glowered sullenly at Beltane, who had turned and was staring away into the distance.  So the Pardoner sulked awhile and spake not, until, seeing Beltane’s hand creep out towards him, he forthwith fell to volubility.

“’Tis told in Belsaye on right good authority that a certain vile knave, a lewd, seditious rogue hight Beltane that was aforetime a charcoal-burner and thereafter a burner of gibbets—­as witness my lord Duke’s tall, great and goodly gallows—­that was beside a prison breaker and known traitor, hath been taken by the doughty Sir Pertolepe, lord Warden of the Marches, and by him very properly roasted and burned to death within his great Keep of Garthlaxton.”