"None, messire," answered Beltane, sighing.
"Aye me! And yet 'tis well enough, for—mark me, youth!—friends be ofttimes a mixed blessing. As for me, 'tis true I am thy friend and so shall ever be, so long as you shall bear yon goodly blade."
"And wherefore?" questioned Beltane.
"Moreover thou art my scholar, and like, perchance, to prove thyself, some day, a notable sworder and a sweet and doughty fighter, belike."
"Yet hast never spoken me thy name, messire."
"Why, hast questioned me but once, and then thou wert something of a blockhead dreamer, methought. But now, messire Beltane, since thou would'st know—Benedict of Bourne am I called."
Now hereupon Beltane rose and stood upon his feet, staring wide-eyed at this grim-faced stranger who, with milk-bowl at lip, paused to smile his wry smile. "Aha!" said he, "hast heard such a name ere now, even here in the greenwood?"
"Sir," answered Beltane, "betimes I have talked with soldiers and men-at-arms, so do I know thee for that same great knight who, of all the nobles of Pentavalon, doth yet withstand the great Duke Ivo—"
"Call you that black usurper 'great,' youth? Body o' me! I knew a greater, once, methinks!"
"Aye," nodded Beltane, "there was him men called 'Beltane the Strong.'"