“Lord,” quoth he in a voice of awe, but Beltane strode on unheeding, whereat Roger’s eyes grew round and his ruddy cheek pale, and clenching his fist, he raised aloft his first and little fingers so that they formed two horns, and with the horns he touched Beltane lightly on the shoulder.  “Master!” said he.

Then Beltane started, and turning, looked at Roger, whereupon Roger immediately crossed his fingers.

“Ha, Roger, I was deep in my thoughts, what would ye?”

“Master, hast ever a pricking in the hairs of thy head?”

“Not I.”

“Dost ever feel a tingling in the soles of thy feet?”

“Not so, in truth.”

“Why then a shivering, quaking o’ the back-bone?”

“Roger, man, what troubles thee now?”

“I do fear thou’rt be-devilled and moon-struck, master!”

“Why so?”

“Betimes thou dost smile upon the moon—­for no reason; scowl upon the earth—­for no reason; work with thy lips yet speak no word, and therewith do bite thy fingers-ends, clench thy fists—­and all for no reason.  Moreover, thou’rt quick and slow in thy gait, sighing gustily off and on—­so it is I do sweat for thee.”

“And wherefore?”

“Master,” quoth Roger, glancing furtively about, “in my youth I did see a goodly man be-devilled by horrid spells by an ancient hag that was a noted witch, and he acted thus—­a poor wight that was thereafter damnably be-devilled into a small, black rabbit, see you—­”

“Saw you all this indeed, Roger?”

“All but the be-devilling, master, for being young and sore frighted I ran away and hid myself.  But afterwards saw I the old woman with the black rabbit in a cage—­wherefore the vile hag was stoned to death, and the black rabbit, that was her familiar, also—­and very properly.  And, lord, because I do love thee, rather would I see thee dead than a rabbit or a toad or lewd cur—­wherefore now I pray thee cross thy fingers and repeat after me—­”

“Nay, my faithful Roger, never fear, here is no witchcraft.  ’Tis but that within the hour the blind doth see, the fool hath got him some little wisdom.”

“Master, how mean you?”

“This night, Roger, I have learned this great truth:  that white can never be black, nor day night, nor truth lie—­and here is great matter for thought, wherefore as I walk, I think.”

Now hereupon Black Roger halted and looked upon Beltane glad-eyed.

“Lord,” he cried, “is it that ye do know the very truth at last—­of Sir Fidelis—­that glorious lady, thy Duchess Helen?”

“Aye, the very truth at last, Roger.”

“Ha!—­’tis so I petitioned the good Saint Cuthbert this very night!”

“And lo! he hath answered thy prayer, Roger.”

“Verily he regardeth poor Roger these days, master, e’en though my belt doth yet bear many accursed notches.”

“They shall be fewer anon, Roger; there be many poor souls for thee to save in woeful Pentavalon.”