"Rogue, thou liest—'tis thing impossible!"
"Moreover, with these three did I, last night, burn down Black Ivo's mighty gallows that stood without Belsaye town, and, thereafter set wide the dungeon of Belsaye and delivered thence certain woeful prisoners, and sent them abroad with word that I—Beltane, son of Beltane the Strong, Duke of Pentavalon, am come at last, bearing the sword of my father, that was wont to strike deep for liberty and justice: nor, having life, will I lay it by until oppression is no more."
Now indeed did Sir Pertolepe stare upon my Beltane in amaze and spake no word for wonder; then, of a sudden he laughed, scornful and loud.
"Ho! thou burner of gibbets!" quoth he, "take heed lest thy windy boasting bring thy lordly neck within a noose! Art lusty of arm, yet lustier of tongue—and as to thy father, whoe'er he be—"
"Messire?" Beltane's voice was soft, yet, meeting the calm serenity of his gaze, Sir Pertolepe checked the jeer upon his lip and stared upon Beltane as one new-waked; beheld in turn his high and noble look, the costly excellence of his armour, his great sword and belt of silver— and strode on thereafter with never a word, yet viewing Beltane aslance 'neath brows close-knit in dark perplexity. So, at last, they came into a little clearing deep-hid among the denser green.
Beltane paused here, and lifting mailed hand, pointed to a certain tree. But hereupon, Sir Pertolepe, staring round about him and down upon his galling bonds, spake:
"Sir knight," said he, "who thou art I know not, yet, if indeed thou art of gentle blood, then know that I am Sir Pertolepe, Baron of Trenda, Seneschal of Garthlaxton, lord warden of the marches: moreover, friend and brother-in-arms am I to Duke Ivo—"
"Nay," said Beltane, "all this I know, for much of thee have I heard, messire: of thy dark doings, of the agony of men, the shame of women, and how that there be many desolate hearths and nameless graves of thy making, lord Pertolepe. Thou wert indeed of an high estate and strong, and these but lowly folk and weak—yet mercy on them had ye none. I have this day heard thee doom the innocent to death and bitter shame, and, lord, as God seeth us, it is enough!"
Sir Pertolepe's ruddy cheek showed pale, but his blue eyes stared upon
Beltane wide and fearless.
"Have ye then dragged me hither to die, messire?"