w, I could bring ye to good service 'neath Duke Ivo's banner.
'Tis said he hath sworn, this year, to burn Thrasfordham keep, to hang
Benedict o' the Mark and lay waste to Bourne. Aha! you shall see good
fighting 'neath Ivo's banner, Sir Dove!"

Then Beltane raised his head and spake, swift and sudden, on this wise:

"An I must fight, the which God forbid, yet once this my sword is drawn
ne'er shall it rest till I lie dead or Black Ivo is no more."

Then did the archer stare upon my Beltane in amaze with eyes full wide
and mouth agape, nor spake he for awhile, then:

"Black Ivo--thou!" he cried, and laughed amain. "Go to, my tender
youth," said he, "methinks a lute were better fitted to thy hand than
that great sword o' thine." Now beholding Beltane's gloomy face, he
smiled within his hand, yet eyed him thoughtfully thereafter, and so
they went with never a word betwixt them. But, in a while, the archer
fell to snuffing the air, and clapped Beltane upon the shoulder.

"Aha!" quoth he, "methinks we reach the fair Duchy of Pentavalon; smell
ye aught, brother?" And now, indeed, Beltane became aware of a cold
wind, foul and noisome, a deadly, clammy air breathing of things
corrupt, chilling the flesh with swift unthinking dread; and, halting
in disgust, he looked about him left and right.

"Above--above!" cried Giles o' the Bow, "this is Sir Pertolepe's
country--look you heavenward, Sir Innocence!"

Then, lifting his eyes to the shivering leaves overhead, Beltane of a
sudden espied a naked foot--a down-curving, claw-like thing,
shrivelled and hideous, and, glancing higher yet, beheld a sight to
blast the sun from heaven: now staring up at the contorted horror of
this shrivelled thing that once had lived and laughed, Beltane let fall
his staff and, being suddenly sick and faint, sank upon his knees and,
covering his eyes, crouched there in the grass the while that grisly,
silent thing swayed to and fro above him in the gentle wind of morning
and the cord whereby it hung creaked faintly.

"How now--how now!" cried Giles; "do ye blench before this churlish
carrion? Aha! ye shall see the trees bear many such hereabouts. Get up,
my qualmish, maid-like youth; he ne'er shall injure thee nor any man
again--save by the nose--faugh! Rise, rise and let us be gone."

So, presently Beltane, shivering, got him to his feet and looking up,
pale-faced, beheld upon the ragged breast a parchment with this legend
in fair, good writing: