“Indeed, my lord, my wisdom teacheth me this—­that were I the proudest and noblest in the land yet should I be unworthy!” and Giles shook miserable head and sighed again full deep.

“Who is she, Giles?”

“She is Genevra, daughter to the Reeve!  And the Reeve is a great man in Belsaye and gently born, alas!  And with coffers full of good broad pieces.  O would she were a beggar-maid, the poorest, the meanest, then might I woo her for mine own.  As it is, I can but look and sigh—­for speak me her I dare not—­ha, and there is a plump fellow!” Here Giles clenched bronzed fist.  “A round and buxom fellow he, a rich merchant’s son doth woo her boldly, may speak with her, may touch her hand!  So do I ofttimes keep him shooting at the butts by the hour together and therein do make me some small amend.  Yet daily do I mope and pine, and pine and mope—­O tall brother, a most accursed thing is this love—­and dearer than my life, heigho!”

“Nay, pluck up thy heart, thou’rt a man, Giles.”

“Aye, verily, but she is a maid, brother, therein lieth vasty difference, and therefore do I fear her for her very sweetness and purity—­fear her?  Faith, my knees do knock at sound of her voice, her very step doth set me direly a-tremble.  For she is so fair—­so pure and nigh the angels, that I—­alack!  I have ever been a something light fellow in matters of love—­forget not I was bred a monk, noble brother!  Thus, brother, a moping owl, I—­a very curst fellow, gloomy and silent as the grave, saving my breath for sighs and groans and curses fell, wherefore I have builded me a ‘mockery’ above the wall and there-from do curse our foes, as only a churchman may, brother.”

“Nay, how mean you, Giles?” questioned Beltane, staring.

“Follow me, lord, and I will show thee!” So saying, Giles led the way down to the battlement above the great gates, where was a thing like unto a rough pulpit, builded of massy timbers, very stout and strong, and in these timbers stood many arrows and cross-bow bolts.

“Here, lord,” quoth Giles, “behold my ‘mockery’ wherefrom it is my wont and custom to curse our foes thrice daily.  The which is a right good strategy, brother, in that my amorous anguish findeth easement and I do draw the enemy’s shafts, for there is no man that heareth my contumacious dictums but he forthwith falleth into rageful fury, and an angry fellow shooteth ever wide o’ the mark, brother.  Thus, thrice daily do we gather a full sheaf of their ill-sped shafts, whereby we shall not lack for arrows an they besiege us till Gabriel’s trump—­ heigho!  Thus do I live by curses, for, an I could not curse, then would my surcharged heart assuredly in sunder burst—­aye me!”

Now whiles they sat thus in talk, up rose the sun, before whose joyous beams the stealthy mists slunk away little by little, until Beltane beheld Duke Ivo’s mighty camp—­long lines of tents gay with fluttering pennon and gonfalon, of huts and booths set well out of bowshot behind the works of contravallation—­stout palisades and barriers with earthworks very goodly and strong.  And presently from among these booths and tents was the gleam and glitter of armour, what time from the waking host a hum and stir arose, with blare and fanfare of trumpet to usher in the day:  and in a while from the midst of the camp came the faint ring and tap of many hammers.