Says Beltane, looking round about with knitted brow: 

“Fidelis—­O Fidelis, methinks I know this place—­these rocks—­the pool yonder—­there should be a road hereabout, the great road that leadeth to Mortain.  Climb now the steep and tell me an you can see a road, running north and south.”

Forthwith Sir Fidelis climbed the rocky eminence, and, being there, cried right joyously: 

“Aye, lord—­’tis the road—­the road!” and so came hastily down, glad-eyed. “’Tis the end of this wilderness at last, my lord!”

“Aye!” sighed Beltane, “at last!” and groaning, he swayed in the saddle—­for his pain was very sore—­and would have fallen but for the ready arms of Sir Fidelis.  Thereafter, with much labour, Beltane got him to earth, and Fidelis brought him where, beneath the steep, was a shallow cave carpeted with soft moss, very excellent suited to their need.  Here Beltane laid him down, watching a little cataract that rippled o’er the rocky bank near by, where ferns and lichens grew; what time Sir Fidelis came and went, and, having set fire a-going whereby to cook their supper, brought an armful of fragrant heather to set ’neath Beltane’s weary head.  Then, having given him to drink of the cordial, fell to work bathing and bandaging his wound, sighing often to see it so swollen and angry.

“Fidelis,” quoth Beltane, “methinks there is some magic in thy touch, for now is my pain abated—­hast a wondrous gentle hand—­”

“’Tis the cordial giveth thee respite, lord—­”

“Nay, ’tis thy hand, methinks.  Sure no man e’er was blest with truer friend than thou, my Fidelis; brave art thou, yet tender as any woman, and rather would I have thy love than the love of any man or woman soever, henceforth, dear my friend.  Nay, wherefore hang thy head? without thee I had died many times ere this; without thy voice to cheer me in these solitudes, thy strength and skill to aid me, I had fallen into madness and death.  Wherefore I do love thee, Fidelis, and fain would have thee go beside me ever—­so great is become my need of thee.”

“Ah, Beltane, thou dost know I will ne’er desert thee!”

“So henceforth am I content—­and yet—­”

“Well, my lord?”

“To-morrow, perchance, shall see the end of this our solitude and close comradeship—­to-morrow we should reach Hundleby Fen.  So, Fidelis, promise me, if thou, at any time hereafter should see me harsh, or proud, or selfish—­do thou mind me of these days of our love and companionship.  Wilt promise me?”

“Aye, lord!” spake Sir Fidelis, low-bending to his task; and thereafter sighed, and bowed him lower yet.

“Wherefore dost thou sigh?”

“For that I feel as if—­ah, Beltane!—­as if this night should be the end of our love and comradeship!”

“Nought but death shall do this, methinks.”

“Why then,” said Fidelis as he rose, “an it must be, fain would I have death.”