“There be many noble and illustrious lords come in to pay thee homage and swear to thee divers fealty oaths—­”

“Then must they wait, Benedict.”

“Wait, my lord—­men so illustrious!  Then this day a deputation waiteth on thee, merchants and what not—­”

“These must wait also, Benedict—­” saith Beltane, his trouble growing.

“Moreover there is high festival at the minster with much chanting and glorification in thy behalf—­and ’tis intended to make for thee a triumphal pageant—­fair maidens to strow flowers beneath thy horse’s feet, musicians to pleasure thee with pipe and tabor—­and—­”

“Enough, enough, Benedict.  Prithee why must I needs endure this?”

“Such things do wait upon success, Beltane, and moreover thou’rt Duke!  Aye, verily thou’rt Duke!  The which mindeth me that, being Duke, it behoveth thee—­”

“And yet, Benedict, I do tell thee that all things must wait awhile, methinks, or better—­do you attend them for me—­”

“Nay—­I am no Duke!” quoth Sir Benedict hastily.

“Yet thou art my chiefest counsellor and lord Seneschal of Pentavalon.  So to thy wise judgment I do entrust all matters soever—­”

“But I have no warranty, thou cunning boy, and—­”

“Shalt have my bond, my ducal ring, nay, the very crown itself, howbeit this day—­”

“Wilt ride for Mortain, O lover?” said Sir Benedict, smiling his wry smile.

“Aye, verily, dear Benedict, nor shall aught under heaven let or stay me—­yet how knew ye this, Benedict?”

“For that ’tis so my heart would have prompted had I been so blessed as thou art, dear my Beltane.  And knowing thou needs must to thy beauteous Helen, I have a meal prepared within my chamber, come your ways and let us eat together.”

So came they to a handsome chamber hard by where was spread a goodly repast whereto they did full justice, though talking much the while, until one tapped lightly upon the door, and Roger entered bearing Beltane’s new-burnished mail.

“Nay, good Roger,” said Beltane, smiling, “need for that is done methinks; we ride light to-day!” But Sir Benedict shook wise head.

“My lord ’tis true our wars be ended I thank God, and we may sheathe our swords at last, but the woods be full of Black Ivo’s scattered soldiery, with outlaws and other masterless men.”

“Ha, verily, lords,” quoth Roger, “there shall many turn outlaw, methinks—­”

“Then must we end outlawry!” said Beltane, frowning.

“And how would’st do it, Beltane?”

“Make an end of the game laws, Benedict—­throw wide the forests to all who will—­”

“But master, thus shall every clapper-claw rogue be free to kill for his base sport thy goodly deer, or belike a hart of ten, fit for sport of kings—­”

“Well, let them in this thing be kings.  But I do hold a man’s life dearer than a stag’s.  So henceforth in Pentavalon the woods are free—­I pray you let this be proclaimed forthwith, my lord.”