“Master,” said he, “saw ye the gibbets yonder?”

“I saw them, Roger.”

“Upon those gibbets be divers of our good fellows, master.  There is Diccon and Peter of my company of pikes, and Gregory that was a fair good bowman, and there be others also—­and master, these be not hanged men!”

“Not hanged—?”

“No, master!  All these our men died in battle, as their wounds do testify—­they were dead men already when Pertolepe hanged them on his gibbets.  And Walkyn is not here, wherefore, methinks, he liveth yet.  And Pertolepe is not here, yet where Pertolepe is, there shall we surely find Walkyn, for Walkyn hath sworn full oft—­ha! master—­ master, behold what cometh here—­see, yonder!”

Then Beltane arose, and looking where Roger pointed, beheld a strange, misshapen thing, half beast, half man, that ran wondrous fleetly towards them, and, as it ran, flourished aloft a broken sword; now was he lost to sight behind some bush or quick-set, now he bounded high over stream or stone or fallen tree—­nought was there could let or stay him—­until he came where stood Sir Benedict’s outposts, to whose conduct he yielded him forthwith and so was presently brought into the market-square.

A wild figure this, great and hairy of head and with the arms and shoulders of a very giant; bedight was he in good link-mail, yet foul with dirt and mire and spattered with blood from heel to head, and in one great hand he griped still the fragment of a reddened sword.  All a-sweat was he, and bleeding from the hair, while his mighty chest heaved and laboured with his running.

So stood he betwixt his brawny captors what time he panted hoarse and loud, and stared about him fierce-eyed ’neath beetling brows.  Thus, of a sudden he espied my Beltane standing bare-headed in his youthful might, whereon this monstrous man forthwith dashed aside his stalwart guards as they had been babes, and ran towards Beltane with hairy hands outstretched, whereon sprang Roger to front him, dagger a-gleam; but lo!  Roger was caught up in those mighty arms and shaken helplessly.  “Fool!” cried this grim fellow, “think ye I would harm Beltane that is my most loved lord henceforth?  I am Ulf, called the Strong, and, as this my hateful body is strong, so is my love—­lie there!” So saying, Ulf laid Roger upon his back, and coming to Beltane, fell upon his face before him and caught his mailed feet and kissed them.

“Lord Beltane,” he cried, harsh-voiced, “thou seest I do love thee—­yet ’twas I did bear thee captive to thy foe by command of one I love beyond all others.  But thou, lord Beltane, thou at peril of thy life did save her from shame and fiery death when Ulf could not—­so do I love thee, lord Beltane, and will be thy slave henceforth, to love and serve thee till I die—­an thou wilt take me.  Misshapen and unlovely ye behold me—­a vile thing that men would jeer at but that they fear to die, for God who hath denied me all else, hath given me strength beyond all men.  Yet do I hate myself and do hide me from the eyes of my fellows:  but, an thou canst bear with me, canst suffer me beside thee and be not ashamed of my unloveliness, then will I front all eyes right boldly.  Now lord, an thou wilt take Ulf for thy man, reach down to me thy hand.”