“Art mad, Roger!  Wherefore should my lord do this?”

“Aye,” nodded Roger, “wherefore?”

And when Giles had whistled awhile and Roger had scowled awhile, the archer spake again: 

“Hast never been in love, Roger?”

“Never, Saint Cuthbert be praised!”

“Then canst know nought of the joy and wonder of it.  So will I make for thee a song of love, as thus:  open thine ears and hearken: 

  “So fair, so sweet, so pure is she
   I do thank God;
   Her love an armour is to me
   ’Gainst sorrow and adversity,
   So in my song right joyfully
   I do thank God for love.

  “Her love a cloak is, round me cast,
   I do thank God;
   To cherish me ’gainst fortunes blast. 
   Her love, forgetting evils past,
   Shall lift me up to heaven at last,
   So I thank God for love.”

“Here is a fair song, methinks; dost not wonder at love now, Roger, and the glory of it?”

“I wonder,” quoth Roger, “how long thou shalt believe all this when thou art wed.  I wonder how long thou wilt live true to her when she is thy wife!”

Now hereupon the archer’s comely face grew red, grew pale, his bronzed hands flew to his belt and leapt on high, gripping his dagger; but Roger had seen, his fingers closed on the descending wrist and they grappled, swaying in their saddles.

Grim and silent they slipped to earth and strove together on the ling.  But Roger had Giles in a cruel wrestling-hold, wrenched him, bent him, and bearing him to earth, wrested away the dagger and raised it above the archer’s naked throat.  And Giles, lying powerless beneath, looked up into Roger’s fierce scowling face and seeing no pity there, his pale cheek grew paler and in his eyes came an agony of broken hopes; but his gaze quailed not and when he spake, his voice was firm.

“Strike true, comrade!” said he.

The hand above him wavered; the dagger was dashed aside and covering his face, Black Roger crouched there, his broad shoulders and powerful figure quaking and shivering.  Then Giles arose and stepping to his dagger, came back with it grasped in his hand.

“Roger!” said he.

Quoth Roger, his face still hidden: 

“My throat is bare also, archer!”

“Roger—­comrade, give to me thy belt!”

Now at this Roger looked up, wondering.

“My belt?” quoth he, “what would ye, Giles?”

“Cut away thy last notch, Roger—­thy belt shall go smooth-edged henceforth and thy soul clean, methinks.”

“But I meant to slay thee, Giles.”

“But spared me, Roger, spared me to life and—­love, my Rogerkin.  O friend, give me thy belt!”

So Roger gave him the belt, wherefrom Giles forthwith cut the last notch, which done, they together, like mischievous lads, turned to look where their lord rode far ahead; and beholding him all unconscious and lost in thought, they sighed their relief and mounting, went on together.