So saying, the bowman drew from his bosom a gold chain, thick and long and heavy, and held it up in the sunlight.

“I got this, Sir Dove, together with the ring and divers other toys, at the storming of Belsaye, five years agone.  Aha! a right good town is Belsaye, and growing rich and fat against another plucking.”

“And how came Belsaye to be stormed?” Quoth Giles the Bowman, eying his golden chain: 

“My lord Duke Ivo had a mind to a certain lady, who was yet but a merchant’s daughter, look ye.  But she was young and wondrous fair, for Duke Ivo hath a quick eye and rare judgment in such pretty matters.  But she (and she but a merchant’s daughter!) took it ill, and when Duke Ivo’s messengers came to bear her to his presence, she whined and struggled, as is ever woman’s way, and thereafter in the open street snatched a dagger and thereupon, before her father’s very eye did slay herself (and she but a merchant’s daughter!), whereat some hot-head plucked out sword and other citizens likewise, and of my lord Duke’s messengers there none escaped save one and he sore wounded.  So Belsaye city shut its gates ’gainst my lord Duke and set out fighting-hoards upon its walls.  Yet my lord Duke battered and breached it, for few can match him in a siege, and stormed it within three days.  And, by Saint Giles, though he lost the merchant’s daughter methinks he lacked not at all, for the women of Belsaye are wondrous fair.”

The rising sun made a glory all about them, pouring his beams ’twixt mighty trees whose knotted, far-flung branches dappled the way here and there with shadow; but now Beltane saw nought of it by reason that he walked with head a-droop and eyes that stared earthward; moreover his hands were clenched and his lips close and grim-set.  As for Giles o’ the Bow, he chirrupped merrily to the ass, and whistled full melodiously, mocking a blackbird that piped amid the green.  Yet in a while he turned to stare at Beltane rubbing at his square, shaven chin with strong, brown fingers.

“Forsooth,” quoth he, nodding, “thou’rt a lusty fellow, Sir Gentleness, by the teeth of St. Giles, which is my patron saint, ne’er saw I a goodlier spread of shoulder nor such a proper length of arm to twirl an axe withal, and thy legs like me well—­hast the makings of a right lusty man-at-arms in thee, despite thy soft and peaceful look!”

“Yet a lover of peace am I!” said Beltane, his head yet drooping.

“Peace, quotha—­peace?  Ha? by all the holy saints—­peace!  A soft word!  A woman’s word!  A word smacking of babes and milk!  Out upon thee, what hath a man with such an arm—­aye, and legs—­to do with peace?  An you would now, I could bring ye to good service ’neath Duke Ivo’s banner.  ’Tis said he hath sworn, this year, to burn Thrasfordham keep, to hang Benedict o’ the Mark and lay waste to Bourne.  Aha! you shall see good fighting ’neath Ivo’s banner, Sir Dove!”

Then Beltane raised his head and spake, swift and sudden, on this wise: