"Aye," cried Giles, "and lovely ladies brought to shame! So,
Garthlaxton—smoke!"
"And," quoth frowning Walkyn, "I would that Pertolepe's rank carcass smoked with thee!"
"Content you, my gentle Walkyn," nodded the archer, "hell-fire shall have him yet, and groweth ever hotter against the day—content you. So away with melancholy, be blithe and merry as I am and the sweet-voiced throstles yonder—the wanton rogues! Ha! by Saint Giles! See where our youthful, god-like brother rideth, his brow as gloomy as his hair is bright—"
"Ah," muttered Roger, "he grieveth yet for Beda the Jester—and he but a Fool!"
"Yet a man-like fool, methinks!" quoth the archer. "But for our tall brother now, he is changed these latter days: he groweth harsh, methinks, and something ungentle at times." And Giles thoughtfully touched his arm with tentative fingers.
"Why, the torment is apt to change a man," said Walkyn, grim-smiling.
"I have tried it and I know."
Now hereupon Giles fell to whistling, Walkyn to silence and Roger to scowling; oft looking back, jealous-eyed, to where Beltane rode a black war-horse, his mail-coif thrown back, his chin upon his breast, his eyes gloomy and wistful; and as often as he looked, Roger sighed amain. Whereat at last the archer cried:
"Good lack, Roger, and wherefore puff ye so? Why glower ye, man, and snort?"
"Snort thyself!" growled Roger.
"Nay, I had rather talk."