"Nay—I do but think—a strange thought—that I have seen thy face ere now, Fidelis. Yet art full young to bear arms a-field."
"Doth my youth plague thee still, messire? Believe me, I am—older than
I seem."
"Thou, at peril of thy life, Fidelis, didst leap 'twixt me and death, so needs must I know thee for my friend, and yet—"
"And yet, messire?"
"Thou hast betimes the look and speech of one—of one beyond all traitors vile!"
"Ah," murmured Sir Fidelis, a sudden tremor in his voice, "thou dost mean—?"
"Helen of Mortain—poor Fidelis—whom thou dost love."
"Whom thou dost hate, Beltane! And O, I pray thee, wherefore is thy hate so bitter?"
"Fidelis, there lived a fool, that, for her beauty, loved her with a mighty love: that, for her seeming truth and purity, honoured her beyond all things: that, in the end, did find her beyond all things vile. Aye, there lived a fool—and I am he."
"Ah, beseech thee," cried Sir Fidelis, white hands outstretched, "how know you her thus false to thee, Beltane?"