"Beltane—Beltane," she sighed, "dost love me indeed—and yet would send me from thee?"
"Aye," he groaned, "needs must it be so."
"Beltane," she murmured, "Beltane, thou shalt be Duke within the week, despite Black Ivo."
"Duke—I? Of Pentavalon?"
"Of Mortain!" she whispered, "an thou wilt wed me, my lord."
"Nay," stammered Beltane, "nay, outcast am I, my friends very few—to wed thee thus, therefore, were shame—"
"To wed me thus," said she, "should be my joy, and thy joy, and
Pentavalon's salvation, mayhap. O, see you not, Beltane? Thou should'st
be henceforth my lord, my knight-at-arms to lead my powers 'gainst Duke
Ivo, teaching Mortain to cringe no more to a usurper—to free
Pentavalon from her sorrows—ah, see you not, Beltane?"
"Helen!" he murmured, "O Helen, poor am I—a beggar—"
"Beltane," she whispered, "an thou wed this lonely maid within the forest, then will I be beggar with thee; but, an thou take to wife the Duchess, then shalt thou be my Duke, lord of me and of Mortain, with her ten thousand lances in thy train."
"Thou would'st give me so much," he sighed at last, "so much, my
Helen?"