“Bethink thee, boy,” said he, “the blood within thy veins is noble.  For, since thou art my son, so, an thou dost leave me and seek thy destiny thou shalt, perchance, be Duke of Pentavalon—­an God will it so.”

But Beltane shook his head.  Quoth he: 

“My father, I am a smith, and smith am I content to be since thou, lord Duke, art my father.  So now will I abide with thee and love and honour thee, and be thy son indeed.”

Then rose the hermit Ambrose to his feet and spake with eyes uplifted: 

“Now glory be to God, Who, in His mercy, hath made of thee a man, my Beltane, clean of soul and innocent, yet strong of arm to lift and succour the distressed, and therefore it is that you to-day must leave me, my well-beloved, for there be those whose need of thee is greater even than mine.”

“Nay, dear my father, how may this be?”

Now hereupon Ambrose the Hermit stood awhile with bent head, and spake not, only he sighed full oft and wrung his hands.

“I thought but of myself!” he groaned, “great sorrow is oft-times greatly selfish.  Alas, my son—­twenty weary years have I lived here suing God’s forgiveness, and for twenty bitter years Pentavalon hath groaned ’neath shameful wrong—­and death in many hateful shapes.  O God have mercy on a sinner who thought but on himself!  List, my son, O list!  On a day, as I kneeled before yon cross, came one in knightly armour and upon his face, ’neath the links of his camail, I saw a great scar—­the scar this hand had wrought.  And, even as I knew Sir Benedict, in that same moment he knew me, and gave a joyous cry and came and fell upon his knee and kissed my hand, as of old.  Thereafter we talked, and he told me many a woeful tale of Pentavalon and of its misery.  How, when I was gone, rose bitter fight and faction, barons and knights striving together which should be Duke.  In the midst of the which disorders came one, from beyond seas, whom men called Ivo, who by might of sword and cunning tongue made himself Duke in my place.  Sir Benedict told of a fierce and iron rule, of the pillage and ravishment of town and city, of outrage and injustice, of rack and flame and gibbet—­of a people groaning ’neath a thousand cruel wrongs.  Then, indeed, did I see that my one great sin a thousand other sins had bred, and was I full of bitter sorrow and anguish.  And, in my anguish, I thought on thee, and sent to thee Sir Benedict, and watched thee wrestle, and at stroke of sword, and praised God for thy goodly might and strength.  For O, dear my son, meseemeth that God hath raised thee up to succour these afflicted, to shield the weak and helpless—­hath made thee great and mightier than most to smite Evil that it may flee before thee.  So in thee shall my youth be renewed, and my sins, peradventure, purged away.”

“Father!” said Beltane rising, his blue eyes wide, his strong hands a-tremble, “O my father!” Then Ambrose clasped those quivering hands and kissed those wide and troubled eyes and spake thereafter, slow and soft: