"Thou would'st not have me—a man, messire?"
"'Twould be less hard to leave thee."
"Thou art—leaving me then, Beltane?"
"Yea, indeed, my lady. The woes of Pentavalon call to me with a thousand tongues: I must away—pray God I have not tarried too long!"
"But art yet weak of thy wound, Beltane. I pray thee tarry—a little longer. Ah, my lord, let not two lives go empty because of the arts of a false friend, for well do I know that Winfrida, seeing me coming to thee in the garden, kissed thee of set purpose, that, beholding, I might grieve."
"Is this indeed so, my lady?"
"She did confess it but now."
"Said she so indeed?"
"Aye, my lord, after I had—pulled her hair—a little. But O, my
Beltane, even when I thought thee base, I loved thee! Ah, go not from
me, stay but until to-morrow, and then shalt thou wed me for thine own!
Leave me not, Beltane, for indeed—I cannot live—without thee!"
So saying, she sank down upon his couch, hiding her face in the pillow.