“Fidelis, there lived a fool, that, for her beauty, loved her with a mighty love:  that, for her seeming truth and purity, honoured her beyond all things:  that, in the end, did find her beyond all things vile.  Aye, there lived a fool—­and I am he.”

“Ah, beseech thee,” cried Sir Fidelis, white hands outstretched, “how know you her thus false to thee, Beltane?”

“Know then, Sir Fidelis, that—­upon our wedding-eve I was—­by her command struck down—­within the chapel—­upon the very altar, and by her borne in bonds unto Garthlaxton Keep—­a present to mine enemy, Duke Ivo—­”

“O, ’tis a lie—­O dear my lord—­’tis lie most foul—!”

“In witness whereof behold upon my wrists the shameful irons from my dungeon—­”

“Alas! here was no work of Helen’s—­no thought, no will—­Helen would have died to save thee this—­”

“So, Fidelis, do I scorn all women that do live upon this earth henceforth—­but, above all, Helen the Beautiful! the Wilful! who in her white bosom doth bear a heart more foul than Trojan Helen, that was a woman false and damned.  So now, all’s said.”

Now fell Sir Fidelis upon his knees and spake quick and passionate: 

“Nay, Beltane, hear me!  For now do I swear that he who told thee ’twas Helen wrought thee this vile wrong—­who told thee this doth lie—­O, doth lie!  Now do I swear that never by word or thought or deed, hath she been false to thee—­I do swear she loveth thee—­ah, spurn me not—­ O, believe—­”

“Enough—­enough, good Fidelis, perjure not thy sweet youth for one so much unworthy, for with these eyes did I behold her as they bore me in my bonds—­and shall I not believe mine eyes?”

“Never—­ah! never, when they do shew thee Helen false and cruel to thee!  Here was some vile magic—­witchcraft—­”

“Enough, Fidelis, ’tis past and done.  Here was a woman false—­well, ’tis none so singular—­there have been others—­there will be others.  So, God keep thee, sweet youth, from the ways of women.  Nay, let us speak of this no more, for in sooth I grow a-weary and we must ride with the dawn to-morrow.  So, betake thee to thy rest, nor grieve thee for my sorrows past and done—­mayhap they shall be things to smile upon one day.”

So saying, Beltane sighed, and laid him down among the bracken and thereafter Fidelis did the like; the fire sank and waned, and oft Sir Fidelis stirred restless in the shadows; the river murmured slumberously among the sedge, but Beltane, hearkening with drowsy ears, oft thought to hear another sound, very soft and repressed yet very dolorous, ere, worn and spent, and something weakened by wound and loss of blood, he sank at last to deep and gentle sleep.

But in his sleep he dreamed that one knelt above him in the dark, keeping watch upon his slumbers in the attitude of one in prayer—­one whom he knew, yet knew not; it seemed to Beltane in his dream, that this silent, slender shape, stooped of a sudden, low and lower, to kiss the iron fetters that bound his wrists; then Beltane strove to wake yet could not wake, but in his slumber sighed a name, soft-breathed and gentle as the languorous murmur of the stream: