a man a
lover of self because he hateth dishonour? Art a presumptuous youth--
and that's amiss!"

"Art thou so ancient, messire, and therefore so wise as to judge 'twixt
thy hates and loves and the abiding sorrows of Pentavalon?" questioned
Fidelis, low-voiced and gentle.

"Old enough am I to know that in all this world is no baser thing than
the treachery of a faithless woman, and that he who seeketh aid of
such, e'en though his cause be just, dishonoureth himself and eke his
cause. So God keep me from all women henceforth--and as for thee, speak
me no more the name of this light wanton."

"My lord," quoth Sir Fidelis, leaning near, "my lord--whom mean you?"

"Whom should I mean but Mortain Helen--Helen the Beautiful--"

Now cried Sir Fidelis as one that feels a blow, and, in the dark, he
seized Beltane in sudden griping fingers, and shook him fiercely.

"And dare ye name her 'wanton!'" he cried. "Ye shall not--I say ye
shall not!" But, laughing, Beltane smote away the young knight's hold
and laughed again.

"Is this light lady's fame so dear to thee, poor, youthful fool?" said
he. "Aye me! doubt not her falsity shall break thy heart some day and
teach thee wisdom--"

A shout among the woods upon their right, a twinkling light that came
and went amid the underbrush, and Walkyn appeared, bearing a lighted
brand.

"Lord," he growled, "here has been devil's work of late, for yonder a
cottage lieth a heap of glowing ashes, and upon a tree hard by a dead
man doth swing."

"Learned ye aught else, Walkyn?"

"Nothing, save that a large company passed here yesterday as I judge.
Horse and foot--going south, see you," and he held his torch to the
trampled road.

"Going south--aye, Walkyn, to Barham Broom, methinks. Here is another
debt shall yet be paid in full, mayhap," quoth Beltane grimly.
"Forward!"

The jingling column moved on again, yet had gone but a little way when
Sir Fidelis, uttering a cry, swerved his horse suddenly and sprang to
earth.

"What now?" questioned Beltane, staring into the murk.

"My lord--my lord, a woman lieth here, and--ah, messire--she is dead!"

"O, a woman?" quoth Beltane, "and dead, say you? Why then, the world
shall know less of evil and treachery, methinks. Come--mount, sir
knight, mount, I say, and let us on!"

But Sir Fidelis, on his knees beside that silent, dim-seen form, heeded
him not at all, and with reverent, folded hands, and soft and tender
voice, spake a praye