“Our company gone—­outlaws, spending their lives to no purpose—­here is evil news, Roger!”

“Here is tender meat, master, and delicate!”

“Back to outlawry!  And Walkyn too!”

“Aye—­but he smiled, master!  Walkyn, methinks, is not a jovial soul, lord, and when he smileth it behoveth others to frown and—­beware.  So prithee eat hearty, lord, for, in a while the sun will stand above yon whin-bush, and then ’twill be the eleventh hour, and at the eleventh hour must I wash thy hurt and be-plaster it with this good ointment.”

“What then?”

“Then shalt thou sleep, master, and I to the woods with my bow to get us meat—­sweet juicy venison, an the saints be kind!”

“And wherefore at the eleventh hour?”

“For that—­She did so command me, master.”

“She?” sighed Beltane.

“Aye, forsooth, master.  She that the good Saint Cuthbert shall give to thy close embracements one day.”

“Think you so?” spake Beltane beneath his breath, and staring across the sunny glade with eyes of yearning, “think you so indeed, Roger?”

“Of a surety, lord,” nodded Roger, “seeing that I do plague the good saint on the matter continually—­for, master, when I pray, I do pray right lustily.”

So, in a while, the meal done and crock and pannikin washed and set aside, Beltane’s leg is bathed and dressed right skilfully with hands, for all their strength and hardness, wondrous light and gentle.  Thereafter, stretched upon his bed of heather, Beltane watches Black Roger gird on belt and quiver, and, bow in hand, stride blithely into the green, and, ere he knows it, is asleep.  And in his sleep, beholds one who bends to kiss him, white hands outstretched and all heaven in her eyes; and with her voice thrilling in his ears, wakes, to find the sun already westering and Black Roger near by, who, squatting before a rough table he has contrived set close beside the fire whereon a cooking pot seethes and bubbles, is busied with certain brewings, infusings and mixings in pipkin and pannikin, and all with brow of frowning portent.

Whereat says Beltane, wondering: 

“What do ye, good Roger?”

“Master, I mix thee thy decoction as She did instruct—­She is a learned youth, master—­Sir Fidelis.  In these dried herbs and simples, look you, lieth thy health and strength and Pentavalon’s freedom—­aye, a notable youth in faith, thy Duchess.”

Hereupon Beltane, remembering his dream, must needs close his eyes that he may dream again, and is upon the portal of sleep when Roger’s hand rouses him.

“What would’st, Roger?”

“Master—­thy draught.”

“Take it hence!”

“Nay, it must be swallowed, master.”

“Then swallow it thyself!”

“Nay, lord, ’tis the hour for thy draught appointed by Sir Fidelis and She must be obeyed—­come, master!” Forthwith, yet remembering his dream, Beltane opens unwilling eyes and more unwilling mouth and the draught is swallowed; whereupon comes languor and sleep, and therewith, more dreams.