“Aye,” nodded Roger, “that will I—­when I have asked my lord.”  So saying, he came and touched Beltane and humbly put the question.

Then, with his gaze yet upon the gallows, Beltane sighed and answered: 

“There hath been no rain for weeks, look you:  the underbrush is dry, methinks, and should burn well!”

“Aye, for sure,” said Roger, “we shall burn Black Ivo’s gallows to ashes, bowman, and a good end ’twill be.”

“By fire!” cried the archer, aghast, “but lord, so soon as they shall see the flames, Sir Gui and his men will sally out upon us!”

“Nay,” said Beltane, “for we shall sally in.”

“Into Belsaye, mean you, lord?”

“Certes,” answered Beltane, “how else may we break open the dungeon?  The night is young yet, but we have much to do—­follow!” So saying, Beltane turned and keeping ever within the shadow of the trees, set off towards that distant hill where stood the gallows, black against the moon.

Swiftly they went and for the most part in silence, for Beltane’s mind was busied upon many matters.

So betimes they climbed the hill and stood at last beneath the gallows, and, glancing up, Beltane beheld noisome shapes, black and shrivelled, that once had lived and laughed.  Forthwith he drew his sword and fell to cutting down the brush, whereat friar Martin, girding up his frock, took Walkyn’s sword and fell to likewise.

Now, as Beltane laboured thus, he was suddenly aware of a wild and ragged figure, the which started up before him as if from the very ground.  An old man he was, bent with years, yet with eyes that burned fierce and undimmed ’neath hoary brows, and shrivelled hands that gripped upon a rusty sword.

“Who are ye,” he cried, harsh-voiced, “who are ye that disturb this woeful place?  ’Tis here that men are dragged to die—­and, being dead, do hang i’ the air to rot and rot—­and thereby hangs a tale of wolves that howl and birds that shriek, aha!—­carrion crows and hook-billed kites—­they be well gorged since Ivo came.  ‘Caw!’ they cry, ’caw!’—­ soft child’s flesh and the flesh of tender maids—­aha!—­I know—­I’ve watched—­I’ve seen!  Ah! since my lord Duke Beltane died, what sights these eyes have seen!”

“Old man,” quoth Beltane, bending near, “who art thou?”

“I am the ghost that haunts this place, but, ages since, I was Sir Robert Bellesme of Garthlaxton Keep.  But my wife they slew, my daughter ravished from me—­and my son—­Ah!  Christ—­my son!  They hanged him here —­yonder he hung, and I, his father, watched him die.  But, by night, when all was still, I crept hither and found a hole to shelter me.  And here I stayed to watch over him—­my son who hung so quiet and so still.  And the rough wind buffeted him, the cruel rain lashed him, and the hot sun scorched him, but still he hung there, so high!—­so high!  Yet I waited, for the strongest rope will break in time.  And upon a moony night, he fell, and I