But Beltane, nothing heeding, turned and strode back into the green and there fell to donning his armour as swiftly as he might—­albeit stealthily.  Thereafter came he to the destrier Mars and, having saddled and bridled him with the same swift stealth, set foot in stirrup and would have mounted, yet found this a painful matter by reason of his wound; thus it befell, that, ere he could reach the saddle, the leaves parted close by and Sir Fidelis spake soft-voiced: 

“My lord Beltane, why dost thou steal away thus?  An it be thy will to leave me to perish alone here in the wilderness, first break thy fast, and suffer me to bind up thy hurt, so shalt thou ride hence in comfort.”  Now stood Beltane motionless and silent, nor turned nor dared he look upon Sir Fidelis, but bowed his head in bitter shame, and, therewith, knew a great remorse.

“Ah, Fidelis,” said he at last, “thy rebuke stingeth deep, for it is just, since I indeed did purpose thee a most vile thing!  How vile a thing, then, am I—­”

“Nay, Beltane—­dear my lord, I would not have thee grieve, indeed ’twas but—­”

“Once ere this I would have slain thee, Fidelis—­murdered thee before my wild fellows—­I—­I, that did preach them mercy and gentleness!  To-day I would have left thee to perish alone within this ravening wilderness—­that do bear so honourable a name!  O Beltane, my father!  Yet, believe me, I did love honour once, and was accounted gentle.  I did set forth to do great things, but now—­now do I know myself unfit and most unworthy.  Therefore, Sir Fidelis, do thou take the horse and what thou wilt beside and leave me here, for fain am I to end my days within these solitudes with no eye to see me more—­save only the eye of God!” So saying, Beltane went aside, and sitting ’neath a tree beside the river, bowed his head upon his hands and groaned; then came Sir Fidelis full swift, and stooping, touched his bowed head with gentle hand, whereat he but groaned again.

“God pity me!” quoth he, “I am in sooth so changed, meseemeth some vile demon doth possess me betimes!” and, sighing deep, he gazed upon the rippling waters wide-eyed and fearful.  And, as he sat thus, abashed and despairing, Sir Fidelis, speaking no word, bathed and bound up his wound, and, thereafter brought and spread forth their remaining viands.

“Eat,” said he gently, “come, let us break our fast, mayhap thy sorrows shall grow less anon.  Come, eat, I pray thee, Beltane, for none will I eat alone and, O, I famish!”

So they ate together, whiles the war-horse Mars, pawing impatient hoof, oft turned his great head to view them with round and wistful eye.

“Fidelis,” quoth Beltane suddenly, “thou didst name me selfish, and verily, a selfish man am I—­and to-day!  O Fidelis, why dost not reproach me for the evil I purposed thee to-day?”

“For that I do most truly love thee, Beltane my lord!”

“Yet wherefore did ye so yesterday, and for lesser fault?”