“End forsooth, we have not yet begun!  An you must have a quarrel, right fully will I provoke thee, since fight with thee I must, it being so my duty—­”

“How thy duty?”

“I am so commanded.”

“By whom?”

“By one who, being dead, yet liveth.  Nay, ask no names, yet mark me this—­the world’s amiss, boy.  Pentavalon groans beneath a black usurper’s heel, all the sins of hell are loose, murder and riot, lust and rapine.  March you eastward but a day through the forest yonder and you shall see the trees bear strange fruit in our country.  The world’s amiss, messire, yet here sit you wasting your days, a foolish brush stuck in thy fist.  So am I come, nor will I go hence until I have tried thy mettle.”

Quoth Beltane, shaking his head, intent upon his work: 

“You speak me riddles, sir.”

“Yet can I speak thee to the point and so it be thy wish, as thus—­now mark me, boy!  Thou art a fool, a dog, a fatuous ass, a slave, a nincompoop, a cowardly boy, and as such—­mark me again!—­now do I spit at thee!”

Hereupon Beltane, having finished the archangel’s wing, laid by his brush and, with thoughtful mien, arose, and being upon his feet, turned him, swift and sudden, and caught the stranger in a fierce and cunning wrestling grip, and forthwith threw him upon his back.  Whereat this strange man, sitting cross-legged upon the sward, smiled his wry and twisted smile and looked upon Beltane with bright, approving eye.

“A pretty spirit!” he nodded. “’Tis a sweet and gentle youth all good beef and bone; a little green as yet, perchance, but ’tis no matter.  A mighty arm, a noble thigh, and shoulders—­body o’ me!  But ’tis in the breed.  Young sir, by these same signs and portents my soul is uplifted and hope singeth a new song within me!” So saying, the stranger sprang nimbly to his feet and catching up one of the swords took it by the blade and gave its massy hilt to Beltane’s hand.  Said he: 

“Look well upon this blade, young sir; in duchy, kingdom or county you shall not find its match, nor the like of the terrible hand that bore it.  Time was when this good steel—­mark how it glitters yet!—­struck deep for liberty and justice and all fair things, before whose might oppression quailed and hung its head, and in whose shadow peace and mercy rested.  ’Twas long ago, but this good steel is bright and undimmed as ever.  Ha! mark it, boy—­those eyes o’ thine shall ne’er behold its equal!”

So Beltane took hold upon the great sword, felt the spring and balance of the blade and viewed it up from glittering point to plain and simple cross-guard.  And thus, graven deep within the broad steel he read this word: 

Resurgam.

“Ha!” cried the stranger, “see you the legend, good youth?  Speak me now what it doth signify.”

And Beltane answered: 

“‘I shall arise!’”