“Save one!” said Beltane.

“Save none, messire!” said the young knight, eager-eyed.

“One!” said Beltane.

“None!” quoth the knight, as, casting aside ponderous lance he vaulted lightly from his saddle and drew his sword; but, seeing that Beltane bore no shield, paused to lay his own tenderly aside, and so faced him serene of brow and smiling of lip.  “Sweet sir,” said he gaily, “here methinks is fair cause for argument; let us then discuss the matter together for the comfort of our souls and to the glory of our ladies.  As to my name—­” “’Tis Jocelyn,” quoth Beltane.

“Ha!” exclaimed the knight, staring.

“That won a suit of triple mail at Dunismere joust, and wagered it ’gainst Black Ivo’s roan stallion within Deepwold forest upon a time.”

“Now, by Venus!” cried the knight, starting back, “here be manifest sorcery!  Ha! by the sweet blind boy, ’tis black magic!” and he crossed himself devoutly.  But Beltane, laughing, put back his hood of mail, that his long, fair hair fell a-down rippling to his shoulders.

“Know you me not, messire?” quoth he.

“Why,” said Sir Jocelyn, knitting delicate brows, “surely thou art the forester that o’ercame Duke Ivo’s wrestler; aye, by the silver feet of lovely Thetis, thou’rt Beltane the Smith!”

“Verily, messire,” nodded Beltane, “and ’tis not meet that knight cross blade with lowly smith.”

“Ha!” quoth Sir Jocelyn, rubbing at his smooth white chin, “yet art a goodly man withal—­and lover to boot—­methinks?”

“Aye,” sighed Beltane, “ever and always.”

“Why then, all’s well,” quoth Sir Jocelyn with eyes a-dance, “for since true love knoweth nought of distinctions, therefore being lovers are we peers, and, being peers, so may we fight together.  So come, Sir Smith, here stand I sword in hand to maintain ’gainst thee and all men the fame and honour of her I worship, of all women alive, maid or wife or widow, the fairest, noblest, truest, and most love-worthy is—­”

“Helen of Mortain!” quoth Beltane, sighing.

“Helen?—­Helen?—­thou too!” exclaimed Sir Jocelyn, and forthwith dropped his sword, staring in stark amaze.  “How—­dost thou love her also?”

“Aye,” sighed Beltane, “to my sorrow!”

Then stooped Sir Jocelyn and, taking up his sword, slowly sheathed it.  Quoth he, sad-eyed: 

“Life, methinks, is full of disappointments; farewell to thee, Sir Smith,” and sighing, he turned away; yet ere he had taken lance and shield, Beltane spake: 

“Whither away, Sir Jocelyn?”