"Nothing, save that a large company passed here yesterday as I judge. Horse and foot—going south, see you," and he held his torch to the trampled road.
"Going south—aye, Walkyn, to Barham Broom, methinks. Here is another debt shall yet be paid in full, mayhap," quoth Beltane grimly. "Forward!"
The jingling column moved on again, yet had gone but a little way when Sir Fidelis, uttering a cry, swerved his horse suddenly and sprang to earth.
"What now?" questioned Beltane, staring into the murk.
"My lord—my lord, a woman lieth here, and—ah, messire—she is dead!"
"O, a woman?" quoth Beltane, "and dead, say you? Why then, the world shall know less of evil and treachery, methinks. Come—mount, sir knight, mount, I say, and let us on!"
But Sir Fidelis, on his knees beside that silent, dim-seen form, heeded him not at all, and with reverent, folded hands, and soft and tender voice, spake a prayer for the departed soul. Now hereupon Beltane knew sudden shame and swift remorse, and bowed his head also, and would have prayed—yet could not; wherefore his black mood deepened and his anger grew more bitter.
"Mount, mount, sir knight!" cried he harshly. "Better to seek vengeance dire than mumble on thy knees—mount, I say!"
Forthwith Sir Fidelis arose, nothing speaking, and being in the saddle, reined back and suffered Beltane to ride alone. But in a while, Beltane perceiving himself thus shunned, found therein a new grievance and fiercely summoned Sir Fidelis beside him.
"Wherefore slink ye behind me?" he demanded.