“But,” said Beltane, wrinkling puzzled brow, “how came you hither—­and art wounded, Jocelyn?”

“Aye, my lord, to desperation—­O direly, Beltane.  I do languish night and day, sleep doth bring me no surcease and music, alack, abatement none.  Food—­base food repelleth me and wine no savour hath.  Verily, verily, wounded deep am I.”

“Forsooth,” said Beltane, “thy foot doth wear bandages a many, but—­”

“Bandages?” cried Jocelyn, staring.  “Foot?  Nay, nay, my torment is not here,” and he flourished his beswathed foot in an airy, dancing step.  “Indeed, Beltane, herein do I confess me some small artifice, yet, mark me, to a sweet and worthy end.  For my hurt lieth here,—­sore smit am I within this heart o’ mine.”

“Thy heart again, Jocelyn?”

“Again?” said the young knight, wrinkling slender brows.

“Aye, thou did’st sing thy heart’s woe to me not so long since—­in an hundred and seventy and eight cantos, and I mind thy motto:  ’Ardeo’.”

“Nay, Beltane, in faith—­indeed, these were folly and youthful folly, the tide hath ebbed full oft since then and I, being older, am wiser.  Love hath found me out at last—­man’s love.  List now, I pray thee and mark me, friend.  Wounded was I at the ford you wot of beside the mill, and, thereafter, lost within the forest, a woeful wight!  Whereon my charger, curst beast, did run off and leave me.  So was I in unholy plight, when, whereas I lay sighful and distressed, there dawned upon my sight one beyond all beauty beautiful.  Y-clad in ragged garb was she, yet by her loveliness her very rags were glorified.  To me, shy as startled doe, came she and, with saintly pity sweet, did tend my hurt, which done, with much ado she did hither bring me.  Each day, at morn and eve, came she with cates rare and delicate, and her gentle hands did woo my wound to health, the which indeed so swift grew well that I did feign divers pains betimes lest she should vanish from me quite—­so grew my love.  At the first loved I her something basely, for the beauty of her body fair, whereat she grieved and sorrowed and fled from my regard, and for an eternity of days came not again until yestere’en.  And, Beltane, though base her birth, though friendless, poor and lonely, yet did my heart know her far ’bove my base self for worthiness.  So did I, yestere’en, upon my knightly word, pledge her my troth, so shall she be henceforth my lady of Alain and chatelaine of divers goodly castles, manors, and demesnes.  To-night she cometh to me in her rags, and to-night we set forth, she and I, to Mortain, hand in hand—­nor shall my lips touch hers, Beltane, until Holy Church hath made us one.  How think ye of my doing, friend?”

“I do think thee true and worthy knight, Sir Jocelyn, and moreover—­”

But of a sudden, Roger’s voice reached them from without, hoarse with terror.

“Master—­O master, beware!  ’Tis the witch, lord—­O beware!”