“Aye, master!” cried Jenkyn o’ the Ford, “aye, look’ee, we ha’ kept our word to thee as we did promise, look’ee master!  So now, speak word to us master, look’ee!”

“Ye men!” quoth Beltane, hoarse-voiced, “O my good comrades all, your deeds this day shall speak when we are dust, methinks!  Your foes this day did muster three thousand strong, and ye do number scarce a thousand—­yet have ye scattered them, for that your cause is just—­’tis thus ye shall lift Pentavalon from shame and give to her peace at last!”

Then Tall Orson shook aloft his battered pike and shouted amain, and on the instant, others took up the cry—­a hoarse roar that rolled from rank to rank; lance and sword, axe and pike were flourished high in air, and from these men who had marched so grimly silent all the day a great and mighty shout went up: 

“Arise, Pentavalon!  Ha!  Beltane—­Pentavalon!” Now even as they shouted, upon this thunderous roar there stole another sound, high and clear and very sweet, that rose and swelled upon the air like the voices of quiring angels; and of a sudden the shouting was hushed, as, forth of the tower’s gloomy portal the lady Abbess came, tall and fair and saintly in her white habit, her nuns behind her, two and two, their hands clasped, their eyes upraised to heaven, chanting to God a hymn of praise and thanksgiving.  Slow paced they thus, the stately Abbess with head low-bended and slim hands clasped upon her silver crucifix until, the chant being ended, she raised her head and beheld straightway Sir Benedict unhelmed and yet astride his great charger.  The silver crucifix fell, the slim hands clasped themselves upon her bosom and the eyes of the tall, white Abbess grew suddenly wide and dark:  and even as she gazed on him, so gazed Sir Benedict on her.

“Yolande!” said he, hoarse-voiced and low.

“Benedict!” she murmured.

Slowly Sir Benedict bowed his head, and turning, laid his hand on Beltane’s mailed shoulder.

“Lady,” said he, “behold here Beltane—­that is son to Beltane heretofore Duke and Lord of Pentavalon!”

“Ah!” she whispered, “Beltane!” and of a sudden stretched out her arms in passionate yearning gesture, then, covering her face, sank upon her knees, “God pity me!” she sighed, “God pity me!” Thereafter she rose to her stately height and looked on Beltane, gentle and calm-eyed.

“My lord Beltane,” said she, “I have heard tell thou art a noble knight, strong yet gentle—­so should thy father be greatly blessed in thee—­and thy—­mother also.  God have thee ever in His keeping—­ Beltane!”

Now as she spake the name her soft voice brake, and turning, she stood with head bowed upon her hands, and standing thus, spake again, deep-voiced and soft: 

“Sir Benedict, we are come to minister to the hurt, all is prepared within the tower, let them be brought to us I pray, and—­my lord, forget not the sacred oath thou didst swear me—­long years agone!”