“Roger!” he whispered, “not Roger the Black?  No, no!  There be a many Rogers.  But who art thou dost bear such a name, and wherefore cower and gasp ye?”

Then stood the blind man with head out-thrust and awful arm upraised, before which Black Roger shrank and shrank to cower in the deeper shadow.

Of a sudden the blind man turned and coming beside Beltane, grasped him by the mantle.

“Lord,” he questioned, “who is he that trembleth before the maimed and blind?—­who is he that croucheth yonder?”

“Nay, fear ye nothing,” said Beltane, “’tis none but my trusty Roger, my good comrade in arms—­comfort ye!” Then he beckoned Roger and took the purse and gave to the blind man bounteously, saying: 

“See now, when you shall come to Belsaye go you to Eric that hath command of the town and to Giles that is captain of the archers, and say that I, Beltane, will come to Belsaye within the week, and all our company with me, God willing.  Bid them be vigilant and watch for our coming; let bows be strung and wall and turret manned night and day.  So now fare thee well, and God’s hand guide thy sightless going.”

Then the blind man blessed Beltane, and turning, forthwith set out upon his way, and his staff tapped loud upon the forest-road.  Right joyfully Beltane strode on again, his mind ever busied with thought of his father; but Roger’s step was listless and heavy, so that Beltane must needs turn to look on him, and straightway marvelled to see how he hung his head, and that his ruddy cheek was grown wondrous pale and haggard.

“Roger?” quoth he, “art sick, Roger?”

“Sick, lord? nay—­not sick, ’tis but that I—­I—­” But when he would have said more his voice failed him, his lip fell a-quivering, and even as Beltane stared in wonder, Black Roger groaned and flung himself upon his knees, and hid his face within his hands.

“Why Roger!  What ails thee, Roger, man?” said Beltane and laid a hand upon his shoulder, whereat Roger groaned again and shrank away.

“Ah, lord, touch me not!” he cried, “unfit am I for hand of thine, unfit and all unworthy—­”

“Nay, good friend—­”

“Master—­master!” groaned Roger, and therewith a great cry brake from him and he cast himself face downwards in the dust.  “Unworthy am I to be thy man, so must I leave thee this night—­aye, leave thee!  For O my lord! yon poor blind man—­’twas I—­at the Red Pertolepe’s command—­ ’twas I—­did burn out his eyes and—­cut off his hand—­’twas I—­I—­Black Roger!  O Saint Cuthbert!  O sweet Jesu!  So all unworthy am I to be thy man!”

And now great sobs shook him, fierce sobs and bitter, and he writhed there in the dust, groaning in the agony of his remorse.  Little by little his passion spent itself, but still he lay there, yearning mightily for sound of his master’s voice or touch of his hand, yet dared he not look up because of his abasement.