This Beltane saw ’twixt hood and wimple, by aid of the torch that flickered against the wall; and she, conscious of his look, stood with white hands demurely crossed upon her rounded bosom, with eyes abased and scarlet lips apart, as one who waits—­expectant.  Now hereupon my Beltane felt himself vaguely at loss, and finding he yet held the dagger, set it upon the table and spake, low-voiced.

“Reverend Mother—­” he began, and stopped—­for at the word her dark lashes lifted and she stared upon him curiously, while slowly her red lips quivered to a smile.  And surely, surely this nun so sweet and saintly in veiling hood and wimple was yet a very woman, young and passing fair; and the eyes of her—­how deep and tender and yet how passionate!  Now beholding her eyes, memory stirred within him and he sighed, whereat she sighed also and meekly bowed her head, speaking him with all humility.

“Sweet son, speak on—­thy reverend mother heareth.”

Now did Beltane, my Innocent, rub his innocent chin and stand mumchance awhile, finding nought to say—­then: 

“Lady,” he stammered, “lady—­since I have found thee—­let us go while yet we may.”

“Messire,” says she, with eyes still a-droop, “came you in sooth—­in quest of me?”

“Yea, verily.  I heard Sir Gilles had made captive of a nun, so came I to deliver her—­an so it might be.”

“E’en though she were old, and wrinkled, and toothless, messire?”

“Lady,” says my Innocent, staring and rubbing his chin a little harder, “surely all nuns, young and old, be holy women, worthy a man’s reverence and humble service.  So would I now bear thee from this unhallowed place—­we must be far hence ere dawn—­come!”

“Aye, but whither?” she sighed, “death is all about us, messire—­how may we escape it?  And I fear death no whit—­now, messire!”

“Aye, but I do so, lady, since I have other and greater works yet to achieve.”

“How, messire, is it so small a thing to have saved a nun—­even though she be neither old, nor wrinkled, nor toothless?” And behold, the nun’s meek head was high and proud, her humility forgotten quite.

Then she frowned, and ’neath her sombre draperies her foot fell a-tapping; a small foot, dainty and slender in its gaily broidered shoe, so much at variance with her dolorous habit.  But Beltane recked nought of this, for, espying a narrow window in the opposite wall, he came thither and thrusting his head without, looked down upon the sleeping camp.  And thus he saw that Sir Gilles’ men were few indeed, scarce three-score all told he counted as they lay huddled about the smouldering watch-fires, deep-slumbering as only men greatly wearied might.  Even the sentinels nodded at their posts, and all was still save for the rush of a sudden wind-gust, or the snort and trampling of the horses.  And leaning thus, Beltane marked well where the sentinels lolled upon their pikes, or marched drowsily to and fro betwixt the watch-fires,