So Beltane followed the white friar with the three upon his heels who wrangled now no more; and in a while the friar paused beside a new-digged grave.

“Behold,” said he, “the bed where we, each one, must sleep some day, and yet ’tis cold and hard, methinks, for one so young and tender!” So saying he sighed, and turning, brought them to a hut near by, an humble dwelling of mud and wattles, dim-lighted by a glimmering rush.  But, being come within the hut Beltane stayed of a sudden and held his breath, staring wide-eyed at that which lay so still:  then, baring his head, sank upon his knees.

She lay outstretched upon a bed of fern, and looked as one that sleeps save for the deathly pallor of her cheek and still and pulseless bosom:  and she was young, and of a wondrous, gentle beauty.

“Behold,” said the friar, “but one short hour agone this was alive—­a child of God, pure of heart and undefiled.  These gentle hands lie stilled forever:  this sweet, white body (O shame of men!) blasted by brutality, maimed and torn—­is nought but piteous clay to moulder in the year.  Yet doth her radiant soul lie on the breast of God forever, since she, for honour, died the death—­Behold!” So saying, the friar with sudden hand laid bare the still and marble bosom; and, beholding the red horror wrought there by cruel steel, Beltane rose up, and taking off his cloak, therewith reverently covered the pale, dead beauty of her, and so stood awhile with eyes close shut and spake, soft-voiced and slow, ’twixt pallid lips: 

“How—­came this—­thing?”

“She was captive to Sir Pertolepe, by him taken in a raid, and he would have had her to his will:  yet, by aid of my lord’s jester, she escaped and fled hither.  But Sir Pertolepe’s foresters pursued and took her and—­so is she dead:  may God requite them!”

“Amen!” quoth Giles o’ the Bow, hoarse-voiced, “so do they all lie dead within the green!”

“Save one!” said Roger.

“But he sore wounded!” quoth Walkyn.

“How!” cried the friar aghast, “have ye indeed slain Sir Pertolepe’s foresters?”

“Nineteen!” nodded Roger, grimly.

“Alas!” cried the friar, “may God save the poor folk hereabouts, for now will Sir Pertolepe wreak vengeance dire upon them.”

“Then,” said Beltane, “then must I have word with Sir Pertolepe.”

Now when he said this, Black Roger stared agape and even the archer’s tongue failed him for once; but Walkyn smiled and gripped his axe.

“Art mad, tall brother!” cried Giles at length, “Sir Pertolepe would hang thee out of hand, or throw thee to his dogs!”

“Lord,” said Roger, “Sir Pertolepe hath ten score men-at-arms in Garthlaxton, beside bowmen and foresters.”

“There should be good work for mine axe!” smiled Walkyn.

“None the less must I speak with him,” said Beltane, and turned him to the door.

“Then will I die with thee, lord,” growled Roger.