In a while he arose and immediately beheld that which lay beyond his mother’s grave full in the radiance of the great east window—­a thing small and slender and daintily wrought; and stooping, he picked up a little shoe.  Of soft leather it was fashioned, cunningly pinked, and sewn, here and there, with coloured silks; and as he stared down at it, so small-seeming in his mailed hand, his heart leapt again, and again his strong hand fell a-trembling.  Of a sudden he raised his eyes to heaven, then, coming to his mother’s grave, very reverently took thence a single great bloom and thrusting the shoe in the wallet at his girdle (that same wallet Sir Fidelis had borne) went out into the golden dawn.

Like one in a dream went Beltane, heedless of his going; by silent street and lane where none stirred at this early hour, thus he wandered on until he was stayed by a high wall wherein was set a small, green door.

As he stood, staring down at the rose he held and lost in pleasant dream, he was aroused by a scrambling sound near by, and, glancing up, beheld a mailed head and shoulders rise suddenly above the wall and so looked into the face of Giles o’ the Bow.  Now in his teeth Giles bare a great red rose—­even as that which Beltane held.

“Giles,” quoth he, sharp and stern, “whence had ye that flower?”

For answer, Giles, straddling the wall, laid finger to lip, then dropping cat-like to his feet, drew Beltane down an adjacent lane.

“Lord,” said he, “yonder is the Reeve’s garden and in the Reeve’s garden cometh the Reeve to taste the sweet dawn, wherefore Giles doth incontinent vanish him over the Reeve’s wall because of the Reeve; nevertheless needs must I bless the Reeve because of the Reeve’s daughter—­though verily, both in my speech and in the Reeve’s garden is too much Reeve, methinks.  As to this rose, now—­ha!”

“How came you by the rose, Giles?”

“Why, in the first place, tall brother, I stole it—­”

“Stole it!” repeated Beltane, and behold! his frown was gone completely.

“But, in the second place, brother, ’twas given to me—­”

“Given to thee—­by whom?” and immediately Beltane’s frown was back again.

“And therefore, in the third place, brother, Giles this day would not change skins with any lord, duke, archduke, pope or potentate that e’er went in skin—­”

“Who gave it thee?—­speak, man!”

“Faith, lord, I had it from one as pure, as fair, as—­”

“Aye, but what like is she?”

“Like unto this flower for sweetness, lord, and—­ha, saints and martyrs! whence had ye that bloom, tall brother—­speak!” and Giles pointed to the rose in Beltane’s fingers.

“What like is she—­answer me!”

“Alack!” sighed Giles, shaking gloomy head, “she is very like a woman, after all, methinks—­”

“Mean ye the Reeve’s daughter?”

“Even so, lord!”

“Doth she wear ever a—­a green veil, Giles?”