“Whither would ye take me?” quoth Red Pertolepe, arrogant.

“That shalt thou know anon, messire.”

“How an I defy thee?”

“Then must we carry thee, messire,” answered Beltane, “yet thine own legs were better methinks—­come, let us begone.”

Thus, presently, having forded the brook, they struck into the forest; first went Walkyn, axe on shoulder, teeth agleam; next strode Sir Pertolepe, head high, ’twixt pale-faced Roger and silent Beltane, while the bowman followed after, calling upon St. Giles beneath his breath and crossing himself:  and ever and anon Walkyn would turn to look upon their scowling captive with eyes that glared ’neath shaggy brows.

Now after they had gone some while, Sir Pertolepe brake silence and spake my Beltane, proud and fierce.

“Fellow,” quoth he, “if ’tis for ransom ye hold me, summon hither thy rogues’ company, and I will covenant for my release.”

“I seek no ransom of thee, messire,” answered Beltane, “and for my company—­’tis here.”

“Here?  I see but three sorry knaves!”

“Yet with these same three did I o’ercome thy foresters, Sir Pertolepe.”

“Rogue, thou liest—­’tis thing impossible!”

“Moreover, with these three did I, last night, burn down Black Ivo’s mighty gallows that stood without Belsaye town, and, thereafter set wide the dungeon of Belsaye and delivered thence certain woeful prisoners, and sent them abroad with word that I—­Beltane, son of Beltane the Strong, Duke of Pentavalon, am come at last, bearing the sword of my father, that was wont to strike deep for liberty and justice:  nor, having life, will I lay it by until oppression is no more.”

Now indeed did Sir Pertolepe stare upon my Beltane in amaze and spake no word for wonder; then, of a sudden he laughed, scornful and loud.

“Ho! thou burner of gibbets!” quoth he, “take heed lest thy windy boasting bring thy lordly neck within a noose!  Art lusty of arm, yet lustier of tongue—­and as to thy father, whoe’er he be—­”

“Messire?” Beltane’s voice was soft, yet, meeting the calm serenity of his gaze, Sir Pertolepe checked the jeer upon his lip and stared upon Beltane as one new-waked; beheld in turn his high and noble look, the costly excellence of his armour, his great sword and belt of silver—­ and strode on thereafter with never a word, yet viewing Beltane aslance ’neath brows close-knit in dark perplexity.  So, at last, they came into a little clearing deep-hid among the denser green.

Beltane paused here, and lifting mailed hand, pointed to a certain tree.  But hereupon, Sir Pertolepe, staring round about him and down upon his galling bonds, spake: 

“Sir knight,” said he, “who thou art I know not, yet, if indeed thou art of gentle blood, then know that I am Sir Pertolepe, Baron of Trenda, Seneschal of Garthlaxton, lord warden of the marches:  moreover, friend and brother-in-arms am I to Duke Ivo—­”