“Ah, messire, thy hurt bleedeth apace—­the steel hath gone deep!  Sit you thus, thy back against the tree—­so.  Within my wallet I have a salve—­wait you here.”  So, whiles Beltane stared dreamily upon the twilit river, Sir Fidelis hasted up the bank and was back again, the wallet by his side, whence he took a phial and goblet and mixed therein a draught which dreamy Beltane perforce must swallow, and thereafter the dreamy languor fell from him, what time Sir Fidelis fell to bathing and bandaging the ugly gash that showed beneath his knee.  Now as he watched these busy, skilful fingers he knew a sudden, uneasy qualm, and forthwith spake his thought aloud: 

“Thy hands are wondrous—­small and slender, Sir Fidelis!”

“Belike, messire, they shall grow bigger some day.”

“Yet are they wondrous fair—­and soft—­and white, Fidelis!”

“Mayhap, messire, they shall grow rough and brown and hairy anon—­so content you.”

“Yet wherefore are they so soft, Fidelis, and so—­maid-like?  And wherefore—­”

“See you, my lord, thus must the bandage lie, fast-knotted—­so.  Nor must it slacken, lest the bleeding start afresh.”  So saying, Sir Fidelis arose, and taking the wallet in one hand and setting the other ’neath Beltane’s arm, led him to where, deep-bowered under screening willows, a fire burned cheerily, whereby were two beds of scented bracken.

Dark and darker the shadows crept down, deepening to a night soft and warm and very still, whose quietude was unbroken save for the drowsy lap and murmur of the river and the sound the war-horse Mars made as he cropped the grass near by.  Full of a languorous content lay Beltane, despite the smarting of his wound, what time Sir Fidelis came and went about the fire; and there, within this great and silent wilderness, they supped together, and, while they supped, Beltane looked oft upon Sir Fidelis, heedful of every trick of mail-girt feature and gesture of graceful hand as he ne’er had been ere now.  Wherefore Sir Fidelis grew red, grew pale, was by turns talkative and silent, and was fain to withdraw into the shadows beyond the fire.  And from there, seeing Beltane silent and full of thought, grew bold to question him.

“Dost meditate our course to-morrow, my lord Beltane?”

“Nay—­I do but think—­a strange thought—­that I have seen thy face ere now, Fidelis.  Yet art full young to bear arms a-field.”

“Doth my youth plague thee still, messire?  Believe me, I am—­older than I seem.”

“Thou, at peril of thy life, Fidelis, didst leap ’twixt me and death, so needs must I know thee for my friend, and yet—­”

“And yet, messire?”

“Thou hast betimes the look and speech of one—­of one beyond all traitors vile!”

“Ah,” murmured Sir Fidelis, a sudden tremor in his voice, “thou dost mean—?”

“Helen of Mortain—­poor Fidelis—­whom thou dost love.”

“Whom thou dost hate, Beltane!  And O, I pray thee, wherefore is thy hate so bitter?”