Anon ’tis even-fall, and the stars, one by one, peep forth of the darkening heaven, shadows steal and lengthen and lo! ’tis night; a night wherein the placid moon, climbing apace, fills the silent world with the splendour of her advent.  And ever and always Beltane lies deep-plunged in slumber; but in his sleep he groans full oft and oft doth call upon a name—­a cry faint-voiced and weak, yet full of a passionate yearning; whereupon cometh sturdy Roger to behold him in the light of the fire, to stoop and soothe him with gentle hand; thus needs must he mark the glitter of a tear upon that pale and sunken cheek, wherefore Black Roger’s own eyes must needs fall a-smarting and he to grieving amain.  In so much that of a sudden he stealeth swiftly from the cave, and, drawing sword setteth it up-right in the ling; then kneeling with bowed head and reverent hands, forthwith fell to his prayers, after this wise:—­

“Sweet Cuthbert—­gentle saint—­behind me in the shadows lieth my master—­a-weeping in his slumber.  So needs must I weep also, since I do love him for that he is a man.  Good Saint Cuthbert, I have wrought for him my best as thou hast seen—­tended his hurt thrice daily and ministered the potion as I was commanded.  I have worked for him—­prayed for him—­yet doth he weep great tears within his sleep.  So now do I place him in thy care, good saint, for thou dost know me but poor rogue Roger, a rough man and all unlearned, yet, even so, I do most truly love him and, loving him, do fear—­for meseemeth his hurt is deeper than hurt of body, he doth pine him and grieve for lack of his heart’s desire—­a young man, sweet saint, that doth yearn for a maid right fair and noble, pars amours, good saint, as is the custom.  But alack, she is far hence and he lieth here sick and like to perish and I am but poor Roger—­a very sinful man that knoweth not what to do.  So do I call on thee, sweet saint—­achieve me a miracle on his behalf, bring him to his heart’s desire that he may wax hale and well and weep no more within his sleep.  And this do I ask for his sake and his lady’s sake and for the sake of Pentavalon Duchy—­not forgetting poor Roger that doth plague thee thus for love of him.  Amen!”

Now behold! even as the prayer was ended came a faint stir and rustle amid the leaves hard by, and, lifting startled head, Black Roger beheld a radiant vision standing in the pale glory of the moon, whereat he knew fear and a great awe.

“O, good Saint Cuthbert, and is it thou indeed?” he whispered, “Sweet saint, I thought not to win thee down from heaven thus, though forsooth I did pray right lustily.  But, since thou art come—­”

“Hush, good Roger!” spake a voice soft and wondrous sweet to hear; and, so speaking, the shining figure raised the vizor of its helm.  “O hush thee, Roger, for he sleepeth.  All day, unseen, have I watched over him, nor can I leave him until his strength be come again.  And sleep is life to him, so wake him not.  Come your ways, for I would speak thee many things—­follow!”