"Peace, Roger! Now speak, woman—what would ye?"
"A life, my lord!"
"Ah, the blessed saints forfend—I feared so!" gasped Roger.
But now the witch turned and looked on Roger, and he incontinent crossed himself and fell thenceforth to mumbling prayers beneath his breath.
"Lord Duke, for that I am but a woman poor and helpless, now would I beseech thine aid for—"
"Nay, tell me first, whence come ye?"
"From Barham Broom, messire. Ah! spare aid for one that lieth in peril of death—the maid Mellent—they do proclaim her witch—they will burn her—"
"O—a woman!" quoth Beltane, wrinkling his brows; and beholding Sir
Fidelis watching him, straightway frowned the blacker.
"Nay, messire, hear me!" cried the witch, "ah, turn not away! This maid, indeed, is not of common blood—a lady is she of birth and wide demesnes—"
"Why then," said Beltane, heedful ever of the young knight's burning glance, "why then is she more apt for treachery and evil."