"My lord Beltane," said he softly, "of what think you?"
"Of Pentavalon, and how soonest her sorrows may be done away."
"Lovest thou Pentavalon indeed, messire?"
"Aye, truly, Fidelis."
"Then wherefore let her suffer longer?"
"Suffer? Aye, there it is—but how may I bring her woes to sudden end?
I am too weak, her oppressors many, and my men but few—"
"Few?" quoth Sir Fidelis, speaking with head low-stooped. "Few, messire? Not so. Ten thousand lances might follow thee to-morrow an thou but spake the word—"
"Nay," sighed Beltane, "mock me not, good Fidelis, thou dost know me a lonely man and friendless—to whom should I speak?"
"To one that loveth thee now as ever, to one that yearneth for thee with heart nigh to breaking—to Helen—"
"Ah!" quoth Beltane, slow and bitter, "speak word to Helen the Beautiful—the Wilful—the Wanton? No, a thousand times! Rather would I perish, I and all my hopes, than seek aid of such as she—"