"For that thine eyes do waken memory, lady."
"Of a woman?"
"Aye—of a woman."
"And thou dost—love her, messire?"
"Unto my dole, lady."
"Ah, can it be she doth not love thee, messire?"
"Indeed, 'tis most certain!"
"Hath she then told thee so—of herself?"
"Nay," sighed Beltane, "not in so many words, lady, and yet—"
"And yet," quoth the nun, suddenly erect, "thou must needs run away and leave her—poor sweet wretch—to mourn for thee, belike, and grieve— aye, and scorn thee too for a faint-heart!"