y me, Beda--wilt murder thy lord? Why then,
strike, fool, strike--here, i' the throat, and let thy steel be
hard-driven. Come!"

Then Sir Pertolepe feebly raised his bloody head, proffering his throat
to the steel and so stood faint in his bonds, yet watching the jester
calm-eyed. Slowly, slowly the dagger was lifted for the stroke while
Sir Pertolepe watched the glittering steel patient and unflinching;
then, swift and sudden the dagger flashed and fell, and Sir Pertolepe
staggered free, and so stood swaying. Then, looking down upon his
severed bonds, he laughed hoarsely.

"How, 'twas but a jest, then, my Beda?" he whispered. "A jest--ha! and
methinks, forsooth, the best wilt ever make!"

So saying, Sir Pertolepe stumbled forward a pace, groping before him
like a blind man, then, groaning, fell, and lay a'swoon, his bloody
face hidden in the grass.

And turning away, Beltane left him lying there with Beda the Jester
kneeling above him.

CHAPTER XVI

OF THE RUEFUL KNIGHT OF THE BURNING HEART

Southward marched Beltane hour after hour, tireless of stride, until
the sun began to decline; on and on, thoughtful of brow and speaking
not at all, wherefore the three were gloomy and silent also--even Giles
had no mind to break in upon his solemn meditations. But at last came
Roger and touched him on the shoulder.

"Master," said he, "the day groweth to a close, and we famish."

"Why, then--eat," said Beltane.

Now while they set about building a fire, Beltane went aside and
wandering slow and thoughtful, presently came to a broad glade or ride,
and stretching himself out 'neath a tree, lay there staring up at the
leafy canopy, pondering upon Sir Pertolepe his sins, and the marvellous
ways of God. Lying thus, he was aware of the slow, plodding hoof-strokes
of a horse drawing near, of the twang of a lute, with a voice
sweet and melodious intoning a chant; and the tune was plaintive and
the words likewise, being these:--

"Alack and woe
That love is so
Akin to pain!
That to my heart
The bitter smart
Returns again,
Alack and woe!"

Glancing up therefore, Beltane presently espied a knight who bestrode a
great and goodly war-horse; a youthful knight and debonair, slender and
shapely in his bright mail and surcoat of flame-coloured samite. His
broad shield hung behind his shoulder, balanced by a long lance whose
gay banderol fluttered wanton to the soft-breathing air; above his
mail-coif