"By means of a tree, lady."
"Art very strong, messire, and valiant beyond thought. Thou hast this night, with thy strong hand, lifted me up from shameful death: so, by right, should my life be thine henceforth." Herewith she sighed, leaning closer upon his breast, and Beltane's desire to see her face grew amain.
"Messire," said she, "methinks art cold indeed, or is it that I weary thee?"
"Nay, thou'rt wondrous easy to bear thus, lady."
"And whither do ye bear me, sir—north or south? And yet it mattereth nothing," says she, soft-voiced, "since we are safe—together!" Now hereafter, as Beltane rode, he turned his eyes full oft to heaven— yearning for the moon.
"What woods be these, messire?" she questioned.
"'Tis the wilderness that lieth betwixt Pentavalon and Mortain, lady."
"Know ye Mortain, sir?"
"Yea, verily," he answered, and sighed full deep. And as he sighed, lo, in that moment the moon peeped forth of a cloud-rift and he beheld the nun looking up at him with eyes deep and wistful, and, as she gazed, her lips curved in slow and tender smile ere her lashes drooped, and sighing, she hid her face against him in the folds of her mantle, while Beltane must needs bethink him of other eyes so very like, and yet so false, and straightway—sighed.
"Messire," she murmured, "pray now, wherefore do ye sigh so oft?"