Now hereupon my Beltane must needs catch his breath and flush to the ears of him, and therewith strive to look at his ease, like the very youth he was.

“How, messire, hath Roger babbled to thee?”

“Babbled?” quoth Sir Benedict, shaking his head, “nay, Roger is no babbler of secret matters, for many do ken of thy love, Beltane—­and I am thy friend, so is thy happiness my happiness.  Thus do I say God and the sweet saints bless thee in thy love, dear lad, for a right noble lady is Helen the Beautiful and meet to thine embracements.  By her so great love, by her proved faithfulness shalt thou yet win to happiness—­”

“Nay, dear my Benedict, first must Pentavalon win to peace.”

“Aye, by Helen’s noble love, for—­”

“O Sir Benedict, I have sworn an oath!”

“Aye, sweet lad, but Roger hath prayed a prayer!”

“Hath he told thee so much, Benedict?”

“So much,” quoth Sir Benedict, pressing his arm, “so much, O man, that hereafter needs must I love thee and honour thee the more.  Since man art thou, my Beltane, for all thy so great youthfulness.”

“Nay, Benedict, am none so youthful.”

“Thy very speech doth prove thee so, yet, being boy, thou art forsooth a man to-day.”

“And wherefore?”

“For that to-day I do know more of thee.  ’Tis suffering, ’tis sorrow nobly borne doth make the man, Beltane.”

“Suffering, messire?”

“Yon lock of hair showeth very white amid the gold, Beltane, but thou art better man therefore, methinks.  The fetters of thy dungeon yet gleam upon thy wrists, Beltane.  But truly I do think within thy prison was forged the sword shall avenge our woes and free Pentavalon at last.”

“Think you indeed, thou wise Benedict, that we by grief and sorrow do rise to find our nobler selves?”

“Aye verily!  ’Tis but by sorrow and suffering our strength or weakness groweth manifest, Beltane.”

“Yet—­O Benedict—­I did doubt her—­plied her with scornful tongue and—­ drave her lonely from me!”

“And dost grieve amain, and sorrow therefore, O youth!”

“Yea, indeed, indeed—­sleeping and waking!”

“And do yearn to woo her to forgiveness on thy knees, to crush her in thine arms and kiss her breath away, O Lover?”

“Aye, dear Sir Benedict, in such sort and so greatly that my passion oft doth fright me, so fiercely do I yearn and long—­yet tremble and grow faint at thought of it!”

“Yet art thou here, bedight in arms, O man—­thy yearning body far removed from all temptation till thou hast proved thee worthy her embrace!  And thus it is I know thee for a man, my Beltane!”

“And thou, Benedict, thou hast yearned and trembled with love ere now, thou hast been a lover once, methinks?” But here Sir Benedict fell to silence, walking with face averted and gaze bent towards the dewy grass, and quickened his steps until they were come nigh unto the camp.  Then lifted he his head; quoth he: