onour, died the death--Behold!" So saying, the friar
with sudden hand laid bare the still and marble bosom; and, beholding
the red horror wrought there by cruel steel, Beltane rose up, and
taking off his cloak, therewith reverently covered the pale, dead
beauty of her, and so stood awhile with eyes close shut and spake,
soft-voiced and slow, 'twixt pallid lips:

"How--came this--thing?"

"She was captive to Sir Pertolepe, by him taken in a raid, and he would
have had her to his will: yet, by aid of my lord's jester, she escaped
and fled hither. But Sir Pertolepe's foresters pursued and took her
and--so is she dead: may God requite them!"

"Amen!" quoth Giles o' the Bow, hoarse-voiced, "so do they all lie dead
within the green!"

"Save one!" said Roger.

"But he sore wounded!" quoth Walkyn.

"How!" cried the friar aghast, "have ye indeed slain Sir Pertolepe's
foresters?"

"Nineteen!" nodded Roger, grimly.

"Alas!" cried the friar, "may God save the poor folk hereabouts, for
now will Sir Pertolepe wreak vengeance dire upon them."

"Then," said Beltane, "then must I have word with Sir Pertolepe."

Now when he said this, Black Roger stared agape and even the archer's
tongue failed him for once; but Walkyn smiled and gripped his axe.

"Art mad, tall brother!" cried Giles at length, "Sir Pertolepe would
hang thee out of hand, or throw thee to his dogs!"

"Lord," said Roger, "Sir Pertolepe hath ten score men-at-arms in
Garthlaxton, beside bowmen and foresters."

"There should be good work for mine axe!" smiled Walkyn.

"None the less must I speak with him," said Beltane, and turned him to
the door.

"Then will I die with thee, lord," growled Roger.

"So will I come and watch thee die--hangman, and loose a shaft or two
on mine own account!"

But now, of a sudden, Walkyn raised a warning hand.

"Hark!" said he: and, in a while, as they listened, upon the stillness
came a rustle of leaves and thereafter a creeping step drawing slowly
nearer: then swift and soft-treading, Walkyn stole out into the
shadows.

Very soon he returned, leading a woman, pale and haggard, who clasped
a babe within her threadbare cloak; her eyes were red and sore with
much weeping and upon the threshold she paused as one in sudden fear,
but espying the friar, she uttered a cry:

"O Father Martin--good father--pray, pray for the soul of him who is
father to my child, but who at dawn must die with many others upon my
lord Duke's gr