"Art thou so ancient, messire, and therefore so wise as to judge 'twixt thy hates and loves and the abiding sorrows of Pentavalon?" questioned Fidelis, low-voiced and gentle.
"Old enough am I to know that in all this world is no baser thing than the treachery of a faithless woman, and that he who seeketh aid of such, e'en though his cause be just, dishonoureth himself and eke his cause. So God keep me from all women henceforth—and as for thee, speak me no more the name of this light wanton."
"My lord," quoth Sir Fidelis, leaning near, "my lord—whom mean you?"
"Whom should I mean but Mortain Helen—Helen the Beautiful—"
Now cried Sir Fidelis as one that feels a blow, and, in the dark, he seized Beltane in sudden griping fingers, and shook him fiercely.
"And dare ye name her 'wanton!'" he cried. "Ye shall not—I say ye shall not!" But, laughing, Beltane smote away the young knight's hold and laughed again.
"Is this light lady's fame so dear to thee, poor, youthful fool?" said he. "Aye me! doubt not her falsity shall break thy heart some day and teach thee wisdom—"
A shout among the woods upon their right, a twinkling light that came and went amid the underbrush, and Walkyn appeared, bearing a lighted brand.
"Lord," he growled, "here has been devil's work of late, for yonder a cottage lieth a heap of glowing ashes, and upon a tree hard by a dead man doth swing."
"Learned ye aught else, Walkyn?"