“Giles,” said she, “thou wert true and faithful to my lord when his friends were few, so methinks thou should’st be faithful and true to thy sweet Genevra—­so will I make thee Steward and Bailiff of Mortain an my lord is in accord—­”

“Lord,” quoth Giles brokenly, “ere thou dost speak, beseech thee hear this.  I have thought on thy saying regarding my past days—­and grieved sorely therefore.  Now an ye do think my shameful past beyond redemption, if these arms be too vile to clasp her as my wife, if my love shall bring her sorrow or shame hereafter, then—­because I do truly love her—­I will see her no more; I will—­leave her to love one more worthy than I. And this I do swear thee, master—­on the cross!”

Quoth Beltane: 

“Giles, he that knoweth himself unworthy, if that his love be a true love, shall by that love make himself, mayhap, worthier than most.  He that loveth so greatly that in his love base self is forgot—­such a man, methinks, doth love in God-like fashion.  So shall it be as my lady hath said.”

Then Giles arose, and wiping off his tears strove to speak his thanks but choked upon a sob instead, and turning, hasted down the turret stair.

Now presently within the city Sir Benedict’s trumpets Hew, and looking from the battlement Beltane beheld Sir Hacon mustering their stout company, knights and men-at-arms, what time Roger and Walkyn and Ulf ordered what remained of their pikemen and archers.

“Beloved!” sighed Beltane, drawing his Duchess within his arm, “see yonder, ’tis horse and saddle—­soon must I leave thee again.”

Now did she sigh amain, and cling to him and droop her lovely head, yet when she spake her words were brave: 

“My Beltane, this love of mine is such that I would not have thee fail in duty e’en though this my heart should break—­but ah! husband, stay yet a little longer, I—­I have been a something lonely wife hitherto, and I—­do hate loneliness, Beltane—­” A mailed foot sounded upon the stone stair and, turning about, they beheld a knight in resplendent armour, blazoned shield slung before.

“Greeting to thee, my lord Duke of Mortain, and to thy lovely lady wife,” spake a cheery voice, and the speaker, lifting his vizor, behold! it was Sir Benedict.  “I go in mine own armour to-day, Beltane, that haply thy noble father shall know me in the press.  Ha, see where he ordereth his line, ’twas ever so his custom, I mind me—­in four columns with archers betwixt.  Mark me now lad, I have brought thee here a helm graced with these foolish feathers as is the new fashion—­white feathers, see you—­that my lady’s sweet eyes may follow thee in the affray.”

“For that, dear Benedict,” cried she, “for that shalt kiss me, so off with thy great helm!” Forthwith Sir Benedict did off his casque, and stooping, kissed her full-lipped, and meeting Beltane’s eye, flushed and laughed and was solemn all in a moment.