“Not so,” answered Beltane, frowning, “within Belsaye are many women and children also, nor should these die that one might live, saintly abbess though she be.”

Now hereupon the witch Jolette raised herself, and set her two hands passionately on Beltane’s shoulders, and looked upon him great-eyed and fearful.

“Ah, Beltane—­Beltane, my lord!” she panted, “but that I am under a vow, now could I tell thee a thing would fire thy soul to madness—­but, O believe, believe, and know ye this—­when Duke Ivo’s embassy shall tell thee all, thou—­shalt suffer them to take thee—­thou shalt endure bonds and shame and death itself.  So now thou shalt swear to a dying woman that thou wilt not rest nor stay until thou shalt free this lady Abbess, for on her safety doth hang thy life and the freedom of Pentavalon.  Swear, O swear me this, my lord Beltane, so shall I die in peace.  Swear—­O swear!”

Now, looking within her glowing eyes, feeling the tremble of her passionate-pleading hands, Beltane bowed his head.

“I swear!” said he.

“So now may God hear—­this thy oath, and I—­die in peace—­”

And saying this, Jolette sank in his arms and lay a while as one that swoons; but presently her heavy eyes unclosed and on her lips there dawned a smile right wondrous to behold, so marvellous tender was it.

“I pray thee, lord, unhelm—­that I may see thee—­once again—­thy golden hair—­”

Wondering, but nothing speaking, Beltane laid by his bascinet, threw back his mail-coif, and bent above her low and lower, until she might reach up and touch those golden curls with failing hand.

“Lord Beltane!—­boy!” she whispered, “stoop lower, mine eyes fail.  Hearken, O my heart!  Even as thy strong arms do cradle me, so—­have these arms—­held thee, O little Beltane, I—­have borne thee oft upon my heart—­ere now.  Oft have hushed thee to rosy sleep—­upon this bosom.  ’Twas from—­these arms Sir Benedict caught thee on—­that woeful day.  For I that die here—­against thy heart, Beltane—­am Jolette, thy foster-mother—­wilt thou—­kiss me—­once?”

So Beltane stooped and kissed her, and, when he laid her down, Jolette the witch was dead.

Full long Beltane knelt, absorbed in prayer, and as he prayed, he wept.  So long knelt he thus, that at last cometh Roger, treading soft and reverently, and touched him.

“Master!” he whispered.

Then Beltane arose as one that dreams and stood a while looking down upon that pale and placid face, on whose silent lips the wondrous smile still lingered.  But of a sudden, Roger’s fingers grasped his arm.

“Master!” he whispered again.  Thereon Beltane turned and thus he saw that Roger looked neither on him nor on the dead and that he pointed with shaking finger.  Now, glancing whither he pointed, Beltane beheld, high on the bank above them, a mounted knight armed cap-a-pie, who stared down at them through closed visor—­a fierce and war-like figure looming gigantic athwart the splendour of the sinking moon.  And even as they stared in wonder, a broad shield flashed, and knight and horse were gone.