“Nay,” said Beltane, “all this I know, for much of thee have I heard, messire:  of thy dark doings, of the agony of men, the shame of women, and how that there be many desolate hearths and nameless graves of thy making, lord Pertolepe.  Thou wert indeed of an high estate and strong, and these but lowly folk and weak—­yet mercy on them had ye none.  I have this day heard thee doom the innocent to death and bitter shame, and, lord, as God seeth us, it is enough!”

Sir Pertolepe’s ruddy cheek showed pale, but his blue eyes stared upon Beltane wide and fearless.

“Have ye then dragged me hither to die, messire?”

“Lord Pertolepe, all men must die, aye, e’en great lords such as thou, when they have sinned sufficiently:  and thy sins, methinks, do reach high heaven.  So have I brought thee hither into the wilderness that God’s will may be wrought upon thee.”

“How—­wilt forswear thyself?” cried Sir Pertolepe, writhing in his bonds.

Quoth Beltane: 

“Come Roger—­Walkyn—­bring me him to the tree, yonder.”

“Ha! rogue—­rogue,” panted Sir Pertolepe, “would’st leave me to die in a noose, unshriven and unannealed, my soul dragged hell-wards weighted with my sins?”

Now, even as he spake, swift and sudden he leapt aside and would have fled; but Walkyn’s fierce fingers dragged at his throat, and Roger’s iron arms were close about him.  Desperately he fought and struggled, but mighty though he was, his captors were mighty also, moreover his bonds galled him; wherefore, fighting yet, they dragged him to the tree, and to the tree Beltane fast bound him, whiles the forest rang and echoed with his panting cries until his great voice cracked and broke, and he hung ’gainst the tree, spent and breathless.

Then spake Beltane, grim-lipped yet soft of voice: 

“Lord Pertolepe, fain would I hang thee as thou hast hanged many a man ere now—­but this, methinks, is a better way:  for here, unless some wanderer chance to find thee, must thou perish, an so God will it.  Thus do we leave thee in the hands of God to grant thee life or death:  and may he have mercy on thy guilty soul!”

Thus said Beltane, sombre of brow and pale of cheek; and so, beckoning to the others, turned away, despite Sir Pertolepe’s passionate threats and prayers, and plunging into the dense underbrush, strode swift-footed from the place, with the captive’s wild cries ringing in his ears.

Haphazard went Beltane, yet straining his ears to catch those mournful sounds that grew faint and fainter with distance till they were lost in the rustle of the leaves.  But, of a sudden, he stayed his going and stood with his head aslant hearkening to a sound that seemed to have reached him from the solitudes behind; and presently it came again, a cry from afar—­a scream of agony, hoarse and long drawn out, a hateful sound that checked the breath of him and brought the sweat out cold upon his brow; and now, turning about, he saw that his following was but two, for Walkyn had vanished quite.  Now Giles, meeting Beltane’s wide stare, must needs cough and fumble with his bow, whiles Roger stood with bowed head and fingers tight-clenched upon his quarter-staff:  whereat, fierce-frowning, Beltane spake.