But hereupon Black Roger spurred beside Beltane, his eyes wide and fearful in the shadow of his helm, his strong, mailed hand a-tremble on Beltane’s arm.

“Beware, my lord, beware!” he cried, “’tis nigh the midnight hour and she a noted witch—­heed her not lest she blight thy fair body, lest she—­”

“Peace, Roger!  Now speak, woman—­what would ye?”

“A life, my lord!”

“Ah, the blessed saints forfend—­I feared so!” gasped Roger.

But now the witch turned and looked on Roger, and he incontinent crossed himself and fell thenceforth to mumbling prayers beneath his breath.

“Lord Duke, for that I am but a woman poor and helpless, now would I beseech thine aid for—­”

“Nay, tell me first, whence come ye?”

“From Barham Broom, messire.  Ah! spare aid for one that lieth in peril of death—­the maid Mellent—­they do proclaim her witch—­they will burn her—­”

“O—­a woman!” quoth Beltane, wrinkling his brows; and beholding Sir Fidelis watching him, straightway frowned the blacker.

“Nay, messire, hear me!” cried the witch, “ah, turn not away!  This maid, indeed, is not of common blood—­a lady is she of birth and wide demesnes—­”

“Why then,” said Beltane, heedful ever of the young knight’s burning glance, “why then is she more apt for treachery and evil.”

“Not so, my lord; weak is she and beset by cruel enemies.  I found her, a stranger, wandering lonely in the green, and she, being sick of heart and brain, spake wild words of a great wrong, vainly done and suffered, and of an abiding remorse.  And when I had nursed her into health she told me a wondrous tale.  So, lord Beltane, do I know that in her hands thy happiness doth lie.”

“Not so!” sighed Beltane.  “Happiness and I are strangers henceforth—­”

But here once again came a hoarse and angry roar with the sound of desperate struggling amid the leaves hard by, whence came Jenkyn and Orson with divers others, dragging a strange, hairy, dwarf-like creature, great and shaggy of head and with the arms and shoulders of a giant; smirched was he in blood from a great wound above the brow and his rich habit was mired and torn.  Now looking upon this monstrous creature that writhed and struggled mightily with his captors, groaning and roaring betimes, Beltane felt his flesh a-creep with swift and pregnant memory, and straightway beset the witch with fierce question: 

“Woman, what thing is this?”

“My lord, ’tis naught but poor Ulf, a natural, messire, very strong and faithful, that hath fought mightily and is nigh slain in our defence—­ see how he bleeds!  Let them not harm him, my lord!”

“Yet have I seen him ere this, methinks.”

“But for the maid Mellent—­thou wilt not let her burn—­and for thy deeds?”

“Mine, forsooth!  How mean you?”

“’Twas yester-eve we were beset hereabouts by a lewd company, and brought unto their lord, Sir Grilles of Brandonmere—­a man beyond all other men base and vile—­who, beholding her so young and fair would have forced her to his will.”