But upon a certain blithe evening Black Roger stood leaning on his bow-stave to watch where Beltane swam the pool with mighty strokes, who, laughing for very joy of it, presently sprang ashore, panting with his exertions, and fell to donning his garments.

“How think ye, Roger,” he cried, “am I fit to adventure me the world again?”

“Forsooth, master, art well of thy wound and fever, and in a week or so mayhap thou shalt perchance be well enough—­”

“A week, Roger!  I tell thee, man, this very day will I hence!”

“But, master,” says Roger, shaking cautious head, “thy world is a world of battles, and for battle art scarce yet strong enough—­”

“Say ye so, Roger?  Then here and now shalt make trial of me.  Art a tall and lusty fellow—­come, man, let us try a fall together.  And mark this, Roger, an thou canst put me on my back shalt have thy will in the matter, but, an I down thee, then hey! for horse and armour and the forest-road this very night.  Come, is’t agreed?”

Now hereupon the wily Roger, noting the pallor of Beltane’s sunken cheek and how his broad breast laboured yet, and moreover feeling himself aglow with lusty life and vigour, smiled grimly, nothing doubting the issue.  Wherefore he nodded his head.

“So be it, master,” said he, “only take thy wind first.”  So saying he set aside bow and quiver, loosed off his sword, and tightening his belt, stepped towards Beltane, his broad back stooped, his knotted arms advanced and fingers crooked to grapple.  Once and twice he circled, seeking a hold, then leapt he swift and low; arms and fingers clenched and locked, and Beltane was bent, swayed, and borne from his feet; but even so, with a cunning twist he brake Black Roger’s hold and staggered free.  Quoth he: 

“Art a very strong man, Roger, stronger than methought.  Come again!”

Once more they circled heedfully, for Beltane had grown more wary:  thrice he sought a certain hold and thrice Black Roger foiled him, ere, sudden and grim, he leapt and closed; and breast to breast they strove fiercely, mighty arms straining and tight-clenched, writhing, swaying, reeling, in fast-locked, desperate grapple.  Now to Roger’s strength and quickness Beltane opposed craft and cunning, but wily Roger met guile with guile nor was to be allured to slack or change his gripe.  Therefore of a sudden Beltane put forth his strength, and wrestled mightily, seeking to break or weaken Roger’s deadly hold.  But Roger’s iron arms gripped and held him fast, crushed him, checked him.

“Aha! master,” panted Roger, “now I have thee!” and therewith heaved right lustily, felt Beltane yield and stagger, slacked his grip for the final hold, and, in that moment, his arms were burst asunder, he was whirled up, kicking, ’twixt earth and heaven, laid gently upon the sward and, sitting up, found Beltane lying breathless beside him.

“’Twas a trick, Roger!” he panted, “I beat thee—­but by an artifice—­”