“Messire,” said she, “methinks art cold indeed, or is it that I weary thee?”

“Nay, thou’rt wondrous easy to bear thus, lady.”

“And whither do ye bear me, sir—­north or south?  And yet it mattereth nothing,” says she, soft-voiced, “since we are safe—­together!” Now hereafter, as Beltane rode, he turned his eyes full oft to heaven—­ yearning for the moon.

“What woods be these, messire?” she questioned.

“’Tis the wilderness that lieth betwixt Pentavalon and Mortain, lady.”

“Know ye Mortain, sir?”

“Yea, verily,” he answered, and sighed full deep.  And as he sighed, lo, in that moment the moon peeped forth of a cloud-rift and he beheld the nun looking up at him with eyes deep and wistful, and, as she gazed, her lips curved in slow and tender smile ere her lashes drooped, and sighing, she hid her face against him in the folds of her mantle, while Beltane must needs bethink him of other eyes so very like, and yet so false, and straightway—­sighed.

“Messire,” she murmured, “pray now, wherefore do ye sigh so oft?”

“For that thine eyes do waken memory, lady.”

“Of a woman?”

“Aye—­of a woman.”

“And thou dost—­love her, messire?”

“Unto my dole, lady.”

“Ah, can it be she doth not love thee, messire?”

“Indeed, ’tis most certain!”

“Hath she then told thee so—­of herself?”

“Nay,” sighed Beltane, “not in so many words, lady, and yet—­”

“And yet,” quoth the nun, suddenly erect, “thou must needs run away and leave her—­poor sweet wretch—­to mourn for thee, belike, and grieve—­ aye, and scorn thee too for a faint-heart!”

“Nay, lady, verily I—­”

“O, indeed me thinks she must contemn thee in her heart, poor, gentle soul—­aye, scorn and despise thee woefully for running away; indeed, ’tis beyond all doubt, messire!”

“Lady,” quoth Beltane, flushing in the dark, “you know naught of the matter—­”

“Why then shalt thou tell me of it, messire—­lo, I am listening.”  So saying, she settled herself more aptly within his encircling arm.

“First, then,” said Beltane, when they had ridden awhile in silence, “she is a duchess, and very proud.”

“Yet is she a woman, messire, and thou a man whose arms be very strong!”

“Of what avail strong arms, lady, ’gainst such as she?”

“Why, to carry her withal, messire.”

“To—­to carry her!” quoth Beltane in amaze.

“In very truth, messire.  To lift her up and bear her away with thee—­”

“Nay—­nay, to—­bear her away?  O, ’twere thing impossible!”

“Is this duchess so heavy, messire?” sighed the nun, “is she a burden beyond even thy strength, sir knight?”

“Lady, she is the proud Helen, Duchess of Mortain!” quoth Beltane, frowning at the encompassing shadows.  Now was the nun hushed awhile, and when at last she spake her voice was low and wondrous gentle.