and with arms out-flung in eager welcome.

"Sir Benedict!" he cried, "hast come at last? Now do I joy to see
thee!"

"My lord," says Benedict, wagging mailed finger. "Ha, Beltane, canst
burn gibbets, storm mighty castles and out-face desperate odds, yet is
old Benedict thy master at stroke of sword still--though, forsooth,
hast dinted me my helm, methinks! O sweet lad, come to my arms, I've
yearned for thee these many days." Herewith Sir Benedict caught Beltane
within his close embrace, and patted him with gauntleted hands, and
laughed for very gladness.

"O foolish youth--O youthful fool!" quoth he, "surely thou of all fools
art greatest, a youthful, god-like fool! O mighty son of mighty father,
how mighty hath thy folly been! O lovely lad that hath attempted deeds
impossible, pitting thyself 'gainst Ivo and all his might! Verily,
Beltane, thou'rt the loveliest fool that ever man did love--"

"Nay, but dear messire," says Beltane as Sir Benedict stayed for
breath, "pray thee, where is thy meaning?"

"Sweet lad, I do but strive to tell thee thou'rt a fool, yet so glad am
I of thy foolish company the words do stick somewhat, but my meaning
shall be manifest--now mark me! Didst not carry off the Red Pertolepe
'neath the lances of his men-at-arms?"

"Aye, my lord."

"Didst not have thy hand on the throat of that cold, smiling rogue Sir
Gui of Allerdale?"

"Verily, messire."

"And hold within thy grasp the life of that foul-living Gilles of
Brandonmere, whose father I slew twelve years agone, I thank God!"

"'Tis true, good Benedict."

"And didst not suffer these arch-knaves to live on and work their
pestilent wills, Beltane?"

"Sir, I did, but--"

"So art thrice a fool. When we see a foul and noxious worm, to tread it
under foot is a virtuous act. So when a man doth constant sin 'gainst
man and maid, to kill him--"

Quoth Beltane:

"Sir Gui and Gilles of Brandonmere have made an end of sinning,
methinks."

"Why 'tis so I've heard of late, Beltane, and herein is some small
comfort; but Red Pertolepe is yet to slay--"

"Truly!" cried Beltane, clenching his fists, "and he marcheth on
Winisfarne, to burn and hang--"

"Content you, my lord Beltane, Waldron of Brand lieth in Winisfarne,
and I am here--"

"So doth my heart rejoice for thee, Benedict, thou right trusty and
doughty friend. But how came ye hither, and wherefore? Methought thee
yet in Thrasfordham!"

"Aha, dear lad, so doth Ivo at this m