Now in this moment Beltane laid his dagger-hand about Sir Pertolepe’s broad shoulders, and set the point of his dagger ’neath Sir Pertolepe’s right ear.

“Speak!” quoth Beltane softly, and his dagger-point bit deeper, “speak now as I commanded thee!”

A while Sir Pertolepe bit savagely at his knuckle-bones, then, lifting his head, spake that all might hear: 

“Ho, sirs!” he cried, “I am fain to bide awhile and hold talk with one Beltane, who styleth himself—­Duke of Pentavalon.  Hie ye back, therefore, one and all, and wait me in Garthlaxton; yet, an I come not by sunset, ride forth and seek me within the forest.  Go!”

Hereupon from the disordered ranks a sound arose, a hoarse murmur that voiced their stark amaze, and, for a while, all eyes stared upon those two grim figures that yet stood so close and brotherly.  But Sir Pertolepe quelled them with a gesture: 

“Go!” he commanded.

So their disarray fell into rank and order, and wheeling about, they marched away along the forest road with helm agleam and pennons a-dance, the while Sir Pertolepe stared after them, wild of eye and with mailed hands clenched; once he made as if to call them back:  but Beltane’s hand was heavy on his shoulder, and the dagger pricked his throat.  And thus stood they, side by side, until the tramp of feet was died away, until the last trembling villager had slunk from sight and the broad road was deserted, all save for Cuthbert the esquire, and divers horses that lay stiffly in the dust, silent and very still.

Then Beltane sighed and sheathed his dagger, and Sir Pertolepe faced him scrowling, fierce-eyed and arrogant.

“Ha, outlaw!” quoth he, “give back my sword and I will cope with thee—­ wolf’s head though thou art—­aye, and any two other rogues beside.”

“Nay,” answered Beltane, “I fight with such as thee but when I needs must.  What—­Roger!” he called, “go fetch hither a rope!”

“Dog—­would ye murder me?”

“Not so,” sighed Beltane, shaking his head, “have I not promised to leave thee alive within the greenwood?  Yet I would see thee walk in bonds first.”

“Ha, dare ye bind me, then?  He that toucheth me, toucheth Duke Ivo—­ dare ye so do, rogue?”

“Aye, messire,” nodded Beltane, “I dare so.  Bring hither the rope, Roger.”  But when Roger was come nigh, Sir Pertolepe turned and stared upon him.

“What!” cried he, jovial of voice yet deadly-eyed, “is it my runaway hangman in very sooth.  Did I not pay thee enough, thou black-avised knave?  Did I not love thee for thy skill with the noose, thou traitorous rogue?  Now, mark me, Roger:  one day will I feed thee to my hounds and watch them tear thee, as they have certain other rogues—­ aha!—­you mind them, belike?”

Pale of cheek and with trembling hands, Roger bound the arms of him that had been his over-lord, while Walkyn and Giles, silent and wide-eyed, watched it done.