“Moreover thou art my scholar, and like, perchance, to prove thyself, some day, a notable sworder and a sweet and doughty fighter, belike.”

“Yet hast never spoken me thy name, messire.”

“Why, hast questioned me but once, and then thou wert something of a blockhead dreamer, methought.  But now, messire Beltane, since thou would’st know—­Benedict of Bourne am I called.”

Now hereupon Beltane rose and stood upon his feet, staring wide-eyed at this grim-faced stranger who, with milk-bowl at lip, paused to smile his wry smile.  “Aha!” said he, “hast heard such a name ere now, even here in the greenwood?”

“Sir,” answered Beltane, “betimes I have talked with soldiers and men-at-arms, so do I know thee for that same great knight who, of all the nobles of Pentavalon, doth yet withstand the great Duke Ivo—­”

“Call you that black usurper ‘great,’ youth?  Body o’ me!  I knew a greater, once, methinks!”

“Aye,” nodded Beltane, “there was him men called ‘Beltane the Strong.’”

“Ha!” quoth Sir Benedict, setting down his milk-bowl, “what know you of Duke Beltane?”

“Nought but that he was a great and lusty fighter who yet loved peace and mercy, but truth and justice most of all.”

“And to-day,” sighed Sir Benedict, “to-day we have Black Ivo!  Aye me! these be sorry days for Pentavalon.  ’Tis said he woos the young Duchess yonder.  Hast ever seen Helen of Mortain, sir smith?”

“Nay, but I’ve heard tell that she is wondrous fair.”

“Hum!” quoth Sir Benedict, “I love not your red-haired spit-fires.  Methinks, an Ivo win her, she’ll lead him how she will, or be broke in the adventure—­a malison upon him, be it how it may!”

So, having presently made an end of eating, Sir Benedict arose and forthwith donned quilted gambeson, and thereafter his hauberk of bright mail and plain surcoat, and buckling his sword about him, strode into the glade where stood the great grey horse.  Now, being mounted, Sir Benedict stayed awhile to look down at Beltane, whiles Beltane looked up at him.

“Messire Beltane,” said he, pointing to his scarred cheek, “you look upon my scar, I think?”

Quoth Beltane, flushing hot: 

“Nay, sir; in truth, not I.”

“Why look now, sweet youth, ’tis a scar that likes me well, though ’twas in no battle I took it, yet none the less, I would not be without it.  By this I may be known among a thousand.  ‘Benedict o’ the Mark,’ some call me, and ’tis, methinks, as fair a name as any.  But look now, and mark me this well, Beltane,—­should any come to thee within the green, by day or night, and say to thee, ‘Benedict o’ the Mark bids thee arise and follow,’—­then follow, messire, and so, peradventure, thou shalt arise indeed.  Dost mark me well, youth?”

“Aye, Sir Benedict.”

“Heigho!” sighed Sir Benedict, “thou’rt a fair sized babe to bear within a cloak, and thou hast been baptized in blood ere now—­and there be more riddles for thee, boy, and so, until we meet, fare thee well, messire Beltane!”