“Mannikin?” roared Ulf, great hands opening and shutting, “unworthy to touch axe of thine, thou pestilent beast!  Dare ye so say to one gently born, base fellow?  Now will I break thee thine accursed axe—­and thee thereafter, an ye will!”

So saying, Ulf the Mighty caught up the axe and wheeling it full-armed, smote and buried it in a young tree close by—­wrenched it free and smote again.  And lo! with prodigious crack and rending of fibres the tall tree swayed, crashing to earth.  Now while Ulf yet stood to stare amazed upon this wondrous axe, upon its sharp-glittering, flawless edge, Walkyn had risen, dagger in hand; but even as he crouched to spring, a voice spake—­a gentle voice but commanding; and in the fire-glow stood the white Abbess, tall and gracious, the silver crucifix agleam upon her bosom.

“Children!” she sighed; and looking from scowling Walkyn to frowning Ulf she reached a slim hand to each.  “O children,” said she, “lay by your steel and give to me your hands!”

Fumbling and awkward, Walkyn sheathed his dagger while Ulf laid the mighty axe upon the grass very tenderly, as it had been a sleeping child; so came they both, shame-faced, unto the lady Abbess and gave her each a hand.  Holding them thus she looked with sad, sweet eyes from one grim face to the other, and drew them nearer the fire.

“Walkyn, son of God,” said she, “behold here Ulf whose valiant heart and mighty strength have been our salvation!  Ulf, child of Heaven, whom God hath made so mighty, behold here brave Walkyn who did protect the weak and helpless and fighteth for the right!  Come then, as ye are children of God, go ye in brotherly love together henceforth, and may heaven bless ye, valiant sons!”

Thus saying, she set their hands one in another, and these hands gripped and held.

Quoth Ulf, sighing: 

“Forsooth, I did but mean to try the balance of thine axe, Walkyn.  And truly it is a mighty weapon and a peerless—­one that even my strength cannot break!”

Quoth Walkyn, grim-smiling: 

“There is in this world no axe like unto it save one that was my brother’s—­and shall be thine henceforth, Ulf the Strong.  Come now, and I will give it unto thee.”  Then bent they reverently before the Abbess, saluted Beltane and, side by side, strode away together.

“Would all feuds might so end, sweet son,” sighed the Abbess, her wistful eyes down-bent upon the fire.

“Would there were more sweet souls abroad to teach men reason!” quoth Beltane.

“Why sit you here, my son, wakeful and alone and the hour so late?”

“For that sleep doth fly my wooing, holy mother.”

“Then fain would I share thy vigil awhile.”

Forthwith Beltane brought her a stool, rough and rudely fashioned, and while she sat, he lay beside her in the firelight; and thus, despite her hood and wimple, he saw her face was of a calm and noble beauty, smooth and unwrinkled despite the silver hair that peeped forth of her loosened hood.  A while they sat thus, nothing speaking, he viewing her, she gazing ever on the fire; at last: