But indeed, silence had fallen upon Belsaye, and no sound brake the quiet save the distant hum and stir of conflict upon the broken wall.  Nevertheless the friar’s dying face waxed bright with a wondrous happiness.

“O blessed—­blessed sound!” he whispered.  Of a sudden he rose up from his pillow with radiant eyes uplifted, and stretched up arms in eager welcome.

“Sweet Jesu!” he whispered.  Slowly his arms sank, the thin hands strove to fold themselves—­fell apart, and, sighing rapturously, Friar Martin sank back upon his pillows like one that is weary, and, with the sigh, was dead.  And lo! in that same moment, from tower and belfry near and far, rose a sudden wild and gladsome clamour of bells ringing out peal on peal of rapturous joy, insomuch that those who knelt beside that couch of death lifted bowed heads—­eye questioning eye in a wonder beyond words.

And now, all at once was the ring and tramp of mailed feet coming swiftly, and in the doorway stood Roger, his riven mail befouled with battle.

“Lords!” he panted, “rejoice—­rejoice! our woes and sorrows be past and done—­hark ye to the bells!  Our deliverance cometh from the north—­you shall see the woods alight with—­the gleam of their armour!”

Nothing saying, Beltane arose and went soft-treading from the chamber, past the blood and horror of the breach, and climbing the flanking tower beside the gate, looked to the north.  And there he beheld a mighty company that marched forth of the woods, rank upon rank, whose armour, flashing in the early sun, made a dazzling splendour against the green.  Company by company they mustered on the plain, knights and men-at-arms with footmen and archers beyond count.

And presently, before this deep array, two standards were advanced—­a white banner whereon was a red lion and a banner on whose blue ground black leopards were enwrought.

Now as Beltane gazed upon this glorious host he felt a gentle hand touch him and turning, beheld the Duchess Helen, and her cheek showed pale with her long night vigil.

“My Beltane,” said she, flushing ’neath his regard, “lord Duke of Mortain, behold yonder thy goodly powers of Mortain that shall do thy bidding henceforth—­look yonder, my lord Duke!”

“Duke!” quoth Beltane, “Duke of Mortain—­forsooth, and am I so indeed?  I had forgot this quite, in thy beauty, my Helen, and did but know that I had to wife one that I do love beyond all created things.  And now, beloved, thy sweet eyes do tell me thy night was sleepless.”

“Mine eyes—­ah, look not on them, Beltane, for well I know these poor eyes be all red and swollen with weeping for thee—­though indeed I bathed them ere I sought thee—­”

“Sweet eyes of love!” said he, setting his arm about her, “come let me kiss them!”

“Ah, no, Beltane, look yonder—­behold where salvation cometh—­”

“I had rather look where my salvation lieth, within these dear eyes—­ nay, abase them not.  And didst weep for me, and wake for me, my Helen?”