Now in a while Beltane turned and meeting his look reached out to him his hand.

“Dear Benedict,” said he, “how much—­how very much I owe to thee.  Thou art methinks the greatest knight that e’er couched lance—­”

“Save thy noble father!” quoth Sir Benedict with solemn nod.

“My father—­you were his esquire and much-loved comrade, Benedict?”

“I was, Beltane.”

“Knew you my mother well, also?”

“Thy mother?  Why—­aye, forsooth, I—­knew thy mother—­very well, Beltane.”

“What manner of woman was she, I pray?”

“The fairest and noblest these eyes have e’er beheld!”

“The—­noblest?”

“And purest!  Hark ye, Beltane, and mark me well—­there ne’er lived wife of so stainless honour as the noble woman that bare thee!”

“And yet,” sighed Beltane, with wrinkled brow, “within the garden of Pentavalon—­my father—­”

“Thy father was a sick man, faint with wounds and spent with hardship.  All that day, as we rode unto Pentavalon City, he and I, his mind oft wandered and he held wild talk in his fever.  But hale was I, mind and body, and I do know the Duke thy father fell to strange and sudden madness upon that dreadful day, whereby came woe to Pentavalon, and bitter remorse to him.  This do I swear, thy mother was noble wife and saintly woman!”

“Loved she my father?”

“Aye, verily—­she was his wife!  Thy father was a noble knight and peerless—­and oft warring on the marches, but methinks—­she was something lonely—­at times, Beltane.”

“Alas!” sighed Beltane, and again “Alas!” So fell they incontinent to deep thought and rode full long in silence.  But ever and anon as they paced along together thus, Sir Benedict must needs lift his head to gaze upon my Beltane, and his grim lips curved to smile infinite tender, and in his eyes was growing wonder.

Quoth he at last: 

“Beltane, d’ye mark this our silent company, not a stave have they carolled since we set forth!  But how shall a man sing and jest whose heart is set on great emprise?  Verily thy words have fired e’en this shrivelled heart o’ mine till I, even as they, methinks, do burn to fight Pentavalon’s cause, to shield her from woeful shame and—­ha!—­ such vile sights as yon!”

Now looking where Sir Benedict pointed, Beltane beheld a thing, crookedly contorted, a-dangle from a knotted branch that jutted athwart the way, insomuch that the must needs stoop, cowering in his saddle, lest he touch the twisted feet of it.

“Dead three days I judge!” mused Sir Benedict.  “Much is possible to the Red Pertolepe in three days.  And he hath a great and powerful following, ’tis said!”

Quoth Beltane, pale-cheeked and frowning a little: 

“So would I have it, Benedict—­they shall be the more for us to smite!”

“I’ve heard he musters full three thousand, Beltane.”

“What then, good Benedict?  Yon poor, dead thing we passed but now was worth a score of men to us—­and there will be others—­Sir Pertolepe loveth to see men hang!  So perchance, ere we come to Winisfarne, the strength of thousands shall lie within these arms of ours.”