“Yet beaten I am, master,” quoth Roger, vastly rueful.

“And art mightier than I thought thee, Roger.”

“Master, I have wrestled oft with Gefroi that was the Duke’s wrestler.”

“Then art a better man than he, meseemeth,” quoth Beltane.

“Yet thou hast beaten me, master!”

“So within the hour we will begone to our duty, Roger!”

“Whither, lord?”

“First to Winisfarne, and thence south to Belsaye, with every lusty fellow we can muster.  How think you?”

“I think the time is not yet, master.”

“Wherefore?”

“For that though things go well with thee and thy cause, yet shall they go better anon.”

“Nevertheless, Roger, within the hour we march.  So come, first let us eat, for I do famish.”

So, when they had caught their breath again, together they arose and, coming to the cave beneath the steep, they re-made the fire and set the pot thereon; which done, Roger brought forth his lord’s armour, bright and newly polished, and in a while Beltane stood, a shining figure from golden spur to gleaming bascinet.  Thereafter, Roger armed him likewise, and as two brothers-in-arms they sat together and ate their meal with mighty appetite and gusto.  Now presently, as they sat thus, Beltane espied a thing that lay by Roger’s knee, and, taking it up, behold! ’twas a wallet of fair-sewn leather, very artfully wrought, and, gazing upon it he must needs fall to sudden thought, whereto he sighed full deep and oft, till, finding Roger watching him, he forthwith checked his sighs and frowned instead.

“Roger,” quoth he, “whence had ye this thing?”

“My lord, from—­Her, the sweet knight Sir Fidelis, thy lady—­”

“Why wilt thou call her my lady, Roger?”

“For that ’tis she you love and sigh for, she that doth love thee and shall bear thee right fair and lusty children yet, so do I pray, and my prayers are potent these days, for the good Saint Cuthbert heedeth me regardfully.  So do I know that she shall yet lie within thine arms and yield thee thine heart’s desire, pars—­”

“Art a fool, Roger—­aye, a very fool, and talk arrant folly—­”

“Yet, master, here is folly shall be thy joy and her joy and—­”

“Enough, Roger!  Hast forgot the oath I sware?  And the ways of woman be crooked ways.  And woman’s love a light matter.  Talk we of women no more.”

“How!” quoth Roger, staring, “speak we no more of—­Her?”

“No more!”

“Forsooth, so be it, master, then will we talk of Sir Fidelis his love—­”

“Nor of Sir Fidelis.”

“Ha!” growled Roger, scratching his head, “must we go mumchance then, master?”

“There be other matters for talk.”

“Aye—­there’s witchcraft, master.  For mark me, when thou wert sick and nigh to God and the holy saints, the evil spell could not come nigh thee, and thou didst yearn and cry continually for nought but—­Her.  But now—­now that thou’rt hale and strong again—­”