"Lord Beltane," said he, "son art thou of a mighty Duke; God send
Mortain find in thee such another!"
"Amen!" said Beltane.
Thereafter Godric rose and pointed up to the zenith.
"Behold, my lady," said he, "it groweth to noon and there is danger hereabouts—more danger e'en than I had dreamed. Let us therefore haste over into Mortain—to thy Manor of Blaen."
"But Godric, see you not my lord is faint of his wound, and Blaen is far, methinks."
"Not so, lady, 'tis scarce six hours' journey to the north, nay, I do know of lonely bridle-paths that shall bring us sooner."
"To Blaen?" mused the Duchess. "Winfrida is there—and yet—and yet— aye, let us to Blaen, there will I nurse thee to thy strength again, my Beltane, and there shalt thou—wed with me—an it be so thy pleasure in sooth, my lord."
So, in a while, they set off through the forest, first Godric to guide them, then Beltane astride the great war-horse with the Duchess before him, she very anxious for his wound, yet speaking oft of the future with flushing cheek and eyes a-dream.
Thus, as the sun declined, they came forth of the forest-lands and beheld that broad sweep of hill and dale that was Mortain.
"O loved Mortain!" she sighed, "O dear Mortain! 'Tis here there lived a smith, my Beltane, who sang of and loved but birds and trees and flowers. 'Tis here there lived a Duchess, proud and most disdainful, who yearned for love yet knew naught of it until—upon a day, these twain looked within each other's eyes—O day most blissful! Ah, sweet Mortain!"