"For that I feel as if—ah, Beltane!—as if this night should be the end of our love and comradeship!"
"Nought but death shall do this, methinks."
"Why then," said Fidelis as he rose, "an it must be, fain would I have death."
But when Beltane would have questioned him further he smiled sad and wistful and went forth to the fire. Up rose the moon, a thing of glory filling the warm, stilly night with a soft and radiant splendour—a tender light, fraught with a subtle magic, whereby all things, rock and tree and leaping brook, found a new and added beauty.
And in some while comes Sir Fidelis to set out their viands, neat and orderly, as was ever his custom, and thereafter must needs chide Beltane, soft-voiced, for his lack of hunger, and cut dainty morsels, wooing him thereby to eat.
"Fidelis," says Beltane, "on so fair a night as this, methinks, the old fables and romances might well be true that tell of elves that dance on moony nights, and of shapely nymphs and lovely dryads that are the spirits of the trees. Aye, in the magic of so fair a night as this aught might happen—miracles and wonders."
"Save one thing, dear my lord."
"As what, my Fidelis?"
"That thou should'st dream Helen pure and faithful and worthy to thy love—that, doubting thine own senses, thou should'st yearn and sigh to hold her once again, heart on heart—"
"Ah, Fidelis," quoth Beltane, sighing deep, "why wilt thou awake a sleeping sorrow? My love was dead long since, meseemeth, and buried in mine heart. O Fidelis, mine eyes, mine ears, my every sense do tell me she is false—so is an end of love for me henceforth."