Now being very sick with the fever of his wound, dread came upon him, fear seized and shook him, and, trembling in the dark he called aloud “Fidelis!  Fidelis!” But no sound heard he save the ripple of the brook near by.  Groaning, he arose and, limping forth of the cave stood in the glory of the moon, voiceless now by reason of his ever-growing terror; conscious only of his passionate desire to find again the youth whose gentle voice had cheered him often in the dark, whose high courage and tender care had never failed.  So, leaning upon his great sword, Beltane limped through light and shadow, heedless of direction, until he was stayed by the waters of the pool.

A faint splash, a rippling of the sleepy waters, and, out into the moonlight came one that swam the pool with long, easy strokes; one that presently leapt lightly ashore and stood there to shake down the unwetted glory of her hair.  At first he thought this some enchanted pool and she the goddess of the place, but even then she turned, and thus at last—­he knew.  And in that moment also, she beheld him amid the leaves; tall and fair she stood, proud and maidenly, nor moved she, nor spake:  only she shook about her loveliness the shining mantle of her hair.  And beholding the reproachful sadness of those clear, virgin eyes, Beltane, abashed by her very beauty, bowed his head, and turning, stumbled away and thus presently finding himself within the cave, threw himself down and clasped his head within fierce hands.  Yet, even so, needs must he behold the slim, white beauty of her, the rippling splendour of her hair, and the deep, shy sadness of her eyes, and, because of her beauty he trembled, and because of her falsity he groaned aloud.

Now as he lay thus, after some while he heard a swift, light footfall, the whisper of mail, and knew that she stood above him; yet he heeded not, wherefore at last she spake, sweet-voiced and gentle.

“Beltane—­dear my lord, now dost thou know who is Fidelis, and thou didst—­love Fidelis!” But Beltane stirred not, and finding him silent, she spake on, yet faltering a little: 

“When I waked from my swoon within the chapel at—­at Blaen, and found thee gone, I, distraught with woeful fear and a most strange sickness, took thy sword and therewith horse and armour and in that same hour fled from Blaen, none knowing.  Many days I rode seeking thee, until Love brought me to thee in the green.  But, O Beltane, for those dire chances of our—­wedding night, by what spells and witchcraft our happiness was changed to sorrow and dire amaze, I know no more than thou.  Ah, Beltane—­dear my lord—­speak—­speak to me!” And falling on her knees she would have lifted his head.  But of a sudden he shrank away, and rose to his feet.

“Touch me not, I am but a man and thou—­art woman, and there is evil in thee, so touch me not with thy false, alluring hands.  O, thou hast deceived me now as ever—­As Fidelis did I love thee above all men, but for what thou art, I do despise thee—­”