ROGER. "Thy brother-in-arms, archer? Thine, forsooth! Ha!"
GILES. "Snort not, my gentle Roger, for I fell in company with him ere he knew aught of thee—so thy snort availeth nothing, my Rogerkin. Howbeit, our snarling wolves do live like tender lambs these days, the which doth but go to prove how blessed a thing is a fist—a fist, mark you, strong to strike, big to buffet, and swift to smite: a capable fist, Roger, to strike, buffet and smite a man to the good of his soul."
ROGER. "In sooth my master is a noble knight, ne'er shall we see his equal. And yet, Giles, methinks he doth mope and grieve these days. He groweth pale-cheeked and careworn, harsh of speech and swift to anger. Behold him now!" and Roger pointed to where Beltane sat apart (as was become his wont of late) his axe betwixt his knees, square chin propped upon clenched fist, scowling into the fire that burned before his sleeping-cave.
"Whence cometh the so great change in him, think you, Giles?"
"For that, while I am I and he is himself, thou art but what thou art, my Rogerkin—well enough after thy fashion, mayhap, but after all thou art only thyself."
"Ha!" growled Roger, "and what of thee, archer?"
"I am his brother-in-arms, Rogerkin, and so know him therefore as a wondrous lord, a noble knight, a goodly youth and a sweet lad. Some day, when I grow too old to bear arms, I will to pen and ink-horn and will make of him a ballade that shall, mayhap, outlive our time. A notable ballade, something on this wise:—
"Of gentle Beltane I will tell,
A knight who did all knights excel,
Who loved of all men here below
His faithful Giles that bare the bow;
For Giles full strong and straight could shoot,
A goodly man was Giles to boot.
A lusty fighter sure was Giles
In counsel sage and full of wiles.
And Giles was handsome, Giles was young,
And Giles he had a merry—"
"How now, Roger, man—wherefore interrupt me?"