"Fled from them?" cried Beltane, his wound forgot, "fled from them— from Mortain? Nay, how mean you—how—fled?"
"She hath walked, see you, run—ridden—is riding—away from Mortain, from her lords, her counsellors, her varlets, her lovers and what not— in a word, messire, she is—gone!"
"Gone!" quoth Beltane, breathless and aghast, "gone—aye—but whither?"
"What matter for that so long as her grave counsellors be sufficiently vexed, and her lovers left a-sighing? O me, her counsellors! Bald-pates, see you, and grey-beards, who for their own ends would have her wed Duke Ivo—meek, unfortunate maid!"
"Know you then the Duchess, lady?"
"Aye, forsooth, and my heart doth grieve for her, poor, sweet wretch, for O, 'tis a sad thing to be a duchess with a multitude of suitors a-wooing in season and out, vaunting graces she hath not, and blind to the virtues she doth possess. Ah, messire, I give thee joy that, whatsoever ills may be thine, thou can ne'er be—a duchess!"
"And think you she will not wed with Ivo, lady—think you so in truth?"
"Never, while she is Helen."
"And—loveth—none of her lovers?"
"Why—indeed, messire—I think she doth—"