“Art going, sir?  Wilt not try me once again?  Methinks I might do a little better this time, an so God wills.”

“Aye, so thou shalt, sweet youth,” cried the stranger, clapping him upon the shoulder, “yet not now, for I must begone, yet shall I return.”

“Then I pray you leave with me the sword till you be come again.”

“The sword—­ha! doth thy soul cleave unto it so soon, my good, sweet boy?  Leave the sword, quotha?  Aye, truly—­some day.  But for the nonce—­ no, no, thy hand is not fitted to bear it yet, nor worthy such a blade, but some day, belike—­who knows?  Fare thee well, sweet youth, I come again to-morrow.”

And so the tall, grim stranger turned him about, smiling his wry smile, and strode away through the green.  Then Beltane went back, minded to finish his painting, but the colours had lost their charm for him, moreover, the light was failing.  Wherefore he put brushes and colours aside, and, stripping, plunged into the cool, sweet waters of a certain quiet pool, and so, much heartened and refreshed thereby, went betimes to bed.  But now he thought no more of women and the ways of women, but rather of this stranger man, of his wry smile and of his wondrous sword-play; and bethinking him of the great sword, he yearned after it, as only youth may yearn, and so, sighing, fell asleep.  And in his dreams all night was the rushing thunder of many fierce feet and the roaring din of bitter fight and conflict.

* * * * *

Up to an elbow sprang Beltane to find the sun new risen, filling his humble chamber with its golden glory, and, in this radiance, upon the open threshold, the tall, grim figure of the stranger.

“Messire,” quoth Beltane, rubbing sleepy eyes, “you wake betimes, meseemeth.”

“Aye, sluggard boy; there is work to do betwixt us.”  “How so, sir?”

“My time in the greenwood groweth short; within the week I must away, for there are wars and rumours of wars upon the borders.”

Quoth Beltane, wondering: 

“War and conflict have been within my dreams all night!”

“Dreams, boy!  I tell thee the time groweth ripe for action—­and, mark me this! wherein, perchance, thou too shalt share, yet much have I to teach thee first, so rise, slug-a-bed, rise!”

Now when Beltane was risen and clad he folded his arms across his broad chest and stared upon the stranger with grave, deep-searching eyes.

“Who art thou?” he questioned, “and what would you here again?”

“As to thy first question, sir smith, ’tis no matter for that, but as for thy second, to-day am I come to teach thee the use and manage of horse and lance, it being so my duty.”

“And wherefore thy duty?”

“For that I am so commanded.”

“By whom?”

“By one who yet liveth, being dead.”

Now Beltane frowned at this, and shook his head, saying: