"My lord Beltane," cried Sir Fidelis, beholding him with shining eyes, "an thou wilt do this noble thing, suffer me beside thee!"
"Not so, messire," answered Beltane, shaking his head, "art over young and tender, methinks—go, get thee back to her that sent thee—keep thou thy fond and foolish dream, and may thy gentle heart go unbroken. Come, Roger!"
So saying, Beltane wheeled about and rode away with Roger at his heels.
CHAPTER XXXIX
HOW BELTANE FOUGHT FOR ONE MELLENT THAT WAS A WITCH.
Barham Broom was gay with the stir of flags and streamers, where, above broidered pavilion and silken tent, pennons and banderoles, penoncels and gonfalons fluttered and flew, beyond which long lines of smaller tents stretched away north and south, east and west, and made up the camp of my lord Duke Ivo.
Beyond the confines of this great and goodly camp the lists had been formed, and here from earliest dawn a great concourse had been gathering; villein and vassal, serf and freedman from town and village: noble lords and ladies fair from castle hall and perfumed bower, all were here, for to-day a witch was to die—to-day, from her tortured flesh the flame was to drive forth and exorcize, once and for all, the demon who possessed her, by whose vile aid she wrought her charms and spells. So country wenches pushed and strove amid the throng, and dainty ladies leaned from canopied galleries to shudder with dread or trill soft laughter; but each and every stared at one who stood alone, 'twixt armed guards, so young and fair and pale within her bonds, oft turning piteous face to heaven or looking with quailing eye where stake and chain and faggot menaced her with awful doom. And ever the kindly sun rose high and higher, and ever the staring concourse grew.
Now, of a sudden the clarions rang out a point of war, and all voices were hushed, as, forth into the lists, upon his richly-caparisoned charger, my lord Duke Ivo rode, followed by his chiefest lords and barons; and as he rode, he smiled to himself full oft as one that meditates a hidden jest. Being come where the witch stood, her disordered garments rent by vicious handling, striving to veil her beauty in her long, dark hair, my lord Duke reined in his pawing steed to sit a while and look down at her 'neath sleepy lids; and, ever as he looked, his arching nostrils fluttered above curling lip, and ever he fingered his long, blue-shaven chin.
"Alack!" cried he at last, "'tis a comely wench, and full young, methinks, to die so soon! But witchcraft is a deadly sin, abhorred by man and hateful unto God—"
"My lord—my lord," spake the witch swift and passionate yet trembling 'neath his sleepy gaze, "thou knowest I am no witch indeed—thou knowest—"