“Giles,” quoth he, looking up, “a heaven’s name, what aileth thee, man?”

“’Tis my eyes, lord.”

“Thine eyes are well enough, Giles, and see wondrous well to judge by thy shooting.”

“Wondrous well—­aye, there it is, tall brother, mine eyes do see wondrous well, mine eyes do see so much, see you, that they do see over-much, over-much, aye—­too, too much.  Alack, ’tis a sorry and woeful world, brother! beshrew my eyes, I say!”

“And wherefore, Giles?”

“For that these eyes do see what other eyes see not—­thine, methinks, saw nought of a fine, lusty and up-standing fellow in a camlet cloak within the Reeve’s garden this morning, I’ll warrant me now?  A tall, shapely rogue, well be-seen, see you, soft-voiced and very debonair?”

“Nay, not I,” said Beltane, and sighing he arose and descended to the battlement above the gates.  And presently, behold Giles was there also!

“Brother,” quoth he, selecting an arrow with portentous care, “’tis an ill thing to be cursed with eyes such as mine, I tell thee!”

“Aye, and wherefore, Giles?” said Beltane, yet intent on his own thoughts.

“For that they do see more than is good for this heart o’ mine—­as this fellow in the blue camlet cloak—­”

“What fellow, Giles?”

“The buxom fellow that was in the Reeve’s garden this morning.”

“Why then,” quoth Beltane, turning away, “go you not to the Reeve’s garden, Giles.”

All day long Beltane kept the wall, eating not at all, wherefore his gloom waxed the more profound; so spake he to few men and oft exposed himself to shaft and missile.  And so, all day long, wheresoever he came, on tower or keep, in corners most remote, there sure was Giles to come also, sighing amain and with brow of heavy portent, who, so oft as he met Beltane’s gloomy eye, would shake his head in sad yet knowing fashion.  Thus, as evening fell, Beltane finding him at his elbow yet despondent, betook him to speech at last; quoth he: 

“Giles, art thou sick?”

“Aye, lord, by reason of this fellow in the blue camlet—­”

“What fellow?”

“The tall and buxom fellow in the Reeve’s garden.”

“Ha!” quoth Beltane, frowning.  “In the garden, say you—­what manner of man is this?”

“O brother—­a shapely man, a comely man—­a man of words and cunning phrases—­a man shall sing you sweet and melodious as any bird—­why, I myself can sing no sweeter!”

“Cometh he there often, Giles?”

“Why lord, he cometh and he goeth—­I saw him there this morning!”

“What doeth he there?”

“Nay, who shall say—­Genevra is wondrous fair, yet so is she that is Genevra’s friend, so do I hope belike ’tis she—­”

“Hold thy peace, Giles!”

Now beholding Beltane’s fierce eye and how his strong hands clenched themselves, Giles incontinent moved further off and spake in accents soft and soothing: