Now as he stood regarding her ’neath frowning brows, she spake, yet lifted not her shapely head.

“Well, my lord?”

“Helen, where is he that came here but now?”

Slowly she lifted her head, and setting white hands ’neath dimpled chin, met his frown with eyes of gentleness.

“Nay, first put up thy dagger, my lord.”

“Helen,” said he again, grim-lipped, “whom dost wait for?”

“Nay, first put up thy dagger, messire.”

Frowning he obeyed, and came a pace nearer.

“What do you here with pen and ink-horn?”

“My lord, I write.”

“To whom?”

“To such as it pleaseth me.”

“I pray you—­show me.”

“Nay, for that doth not please me, messire.”

“I pray you, who was he that came hither but now—­a tall man in a long blue cloak?”

“I saw him not, my lord.”

“So needs must I see thy letter.”

“Nay, that thou shalt not, my lord,” said she, and rose to her stately height.

“Aye, but I shall!” quoth Beltane softly, and came a pace yet nearer.

Now because of the grim and masterful look of him, her heart fell a-fluttering, yet she fronted him scornful-eyed, and curled her red lip at him.

“Messire,” said she, “methinks you do forget I am the—­”

“I remember thou art woman and thy name—­Helen!”

Now at this laughed she softly and thereafter falleth to singing very sweet and blithe and merry withal.

“The letter!” said he, “give me thy letter!”

Hereupon she took up the letter, and, yet singing, crumpled it up within white fingers.

Then Beltane set by the table and reaching out sudden arms, caught her up ’neath waist and knee, and lifting her high, crushed her upon his breast.

“Helen!” said he, low-voiced and fierce, “mine art thou as I am thine, forever, ’twas so we plighted our troth within the green.  Now for thy beauty I do greatly love thee, but for thy sweet soul and purity of heart I do reverence and worship thee—­but an thou slay my reverent worship then this night shalt thou die and I with thee—­for mine art thou and shalt be mine forever.  Give me thy letter!”

But now her eyes quailed ’neath his, her white lids drooped, and sighing, she spake small-voiced: 

“O my lord, thine arms are so—­so tyrannous that I do fear thee—­ almost!  And how may a poor maid, so crushed and helpless thus, gainsay thee?  So prithee, O prithee take my poor letter an thou wilt ravish it from one so defenceless—­O beseech thee, take it!”

So she gave the crumpled parchment into his hand, yet while he read it, nestled closer in his arms and hid her face against him; for what he read was this: 

“Beloved, art thou angered, or sorrowful, or humble in thy foolish jealousy?  If angered, then must I woo thee.  If sorrowful, cherish thee.  But being Beltane, needs must I love thee ever—­so write I this, bidding thee come, my Beltane the Smith, for I—­”