"Then must we leave our armour behind," quoth Beltane, and throwing back his hood of mail, he began to unbuckle his broad belt, but of a sudden, stayed to point with outstretched finger. Then, looking whither he pointed, Roger saw a tree whose hole leaned far out across the stream, so that one far-flung branch well nigh scraped the broken roof of the mill.
"Yon lieth our way, Roger—come!" said he.
Being come to that side of the tree afar from the watch-fires, Beltane swung himself lightly and began to climb, but hearing a groan, paused.
"Roger," he whispered, "what ails thee, Roger?"
"Alas!" groaned Roger, "'tis my wound irketh me; O master, I cannot follow thee this way!"
"Nay, let me aid thee," whispered Beltane, reaching down to him. But, despite Beltane's strong hand, desperately though he tried, Black Roger fell back, groaning.
"Master," he pleaded, "O master, adventure not alone lest ill befall thee." "Aye, but I must, Roger."
Then Roger leaned his head upon his sound arm, and wept full bitterly.
"O master,—O sweet lord," quoth he, "bethink thee now of the warning— the dead hand—"
"Yet must I go, my Roger."