“Master,” he whispered, “there is a thing within that groaneth—­ goblin-groans, master.  A thing very like unto a goblin, for I ha’ seen it —­a pale thing that creepeth—­holy saints, ’tis here again—­hark to it!”

And in very truth Beltane heard a sound the which, soft though it was, checked his breath and chilled his flesh; and, as he peered into the gloomy recesses of the cavern, there moved something vague amid the shadows, something that rose up slow and painfully.

Roger was down gasping on his knees, Beltane’s hand was tight-clenched upon the hilt of his sword, as out into the moonlight crept one, very bent and feeble, shrouded in a long grey cloak; a pitiful figure, that, leaning a hand upon the rock, slowly raised a drooping head.  Then Beltane saw that this was the witch Jolette.

A while she stood thus, one hand supporting her against the rocky bank, the other hid within the folds of her long mantle.

“O my lord!” said she, low-voiced, “all day long my heart hath been calling—­calling to thee; so art come at last—­thanks be to God—­O my lord Beltane!”

Now as she spake, she reached out a hand to him so that the shrouding mantle fell away; then, beholding what it had hid, Beltane let fall his sword, and leaping forward, caught her within his arm.

“Ah!—­thou’rt hurt!” he cried.

“My lord, I—­strove to bind it up—­I am cunning in herbs and simples—­ but my hurt is too deep for any leechcraft.  To-night—­soon—­I must die.  Lay me down, I pray thee.  Thine arms are strong, lord Beltane, and—­ very gentle.  How, dost grieve for a witch, lord—­for poor Jolette?  Nay, comfort ye—­my life has been none so sweet I should dread to lose it.”

“How cometh this?” he questioned gently, on his knees beside her.

“’Twas the Red Pertolepe’s men—­nay, messire, they have but killed me.  But O, my dear lord—­heed me well.  A week agone lord Pertolepe marched hither seeking thee with a great company led by yon Gurth.  And when he found thee not he hanged Gurth, yet tarried here awhile.  Then I, knowing a secret path hither that none else do know, came and hearkened to their councils.  So do I know that he is marched for Winisfarne—­”

“Ha, is this so!” cried Beltane, clenching his fist, “then will he hang and burn!”

“Aye, ’tis like enough, messire.  But—­O heed me!  He goeth for a deeper purpose—­list, Beltane—­O list—­he goeth to seize upon the noble and saintly Abbess Veronica—­to bear her captive unto Pentavalon city, there to hold her hostage for—­for thee, Beltane—­for thee!”

“How mean you?”

“When he hath her safe, Duke Ivo, because he hath learned to fear thee at last, will send envoys to thee demanding thou shalt yield up to him the town of Belsaye and thy body to his mercy, or this fair and noble lady Abbess shall be shamed and dishonoured, and know a death most dire.  And—­ah! because thou art the man thou art, thou must needs yield thyself to Ivo’s cruel hands, and Belsaye to flame and ravishment.”