Now as he lay thus, after some while he heard a swift, light footfall, the whisper of mail, and knew that she stood above him; yet he heeded not, wherefore at last she spake, sweet-voiced and gentle.
"Beltane—dear my lord, now dost thou know who is Fidelis, and thou didst—love Fidelis!" But Beltane stirred not, and finding him silent, she spake on, yet faltering a little:
"When I waked from my swoon within the chapel at—at Blaen, and found thee gone, I, distraught with woeful fear and a most strange sickness, took thy sword and therewith horse and armour and in that same hour fled from Blaen, none knowing. Many days I rode seeking thee, until Love brought me to thee in the green. But, O Beltane, for those dire chances of our—wedding night, by what spells and witchcraft our happiness was changed to sorrow and dire amaze, I know no more than thou. Ah, Beltane—dear my lord—speak—speak to me!" And falling on her knees she would have lifted his head. But of a sudden he shrank away, and rose to his feet.
"Touch me not, I am but a man and thou—art woman, and there is evil in thee, so touch me not with thy false, alluring hands. O, thou hast deceived me now as ever—As Fidelis did I love thee above all men, but for what thou art, I do despise thee—"
But, with sudden gesture passionate and yearning, she reached out her white hands, and, kneeling thus, looked up at him with eyes a-swoon with love and supplication.
"Beltane!" she sighed, "Beltane! Is thy great love dead in very truth? nay, indeed I know it liveth yet even as mine, and shall live on forever. I know—I have seen it leap within thine eyes, heard it in thy voice—and wherefore did'st thou love Fidelis? Look at me, Beltane! I can be as brave, as faithful and tender as Fidelis! Look at me!"
But Beltane dared not look, and trembled because of her so great beauty, and fain would speak yet could not.
Whereat she, yet upon her knees, drew nearer.
"Beltane," she murmured, "trust me. Despite thyself, O, trust me—so shalt thou find happiness at last and Pentavalon an end to all her sorrows. Be thou my lord, my master—my dear love and husband—ride with me this night to my fair Mortain—"
"To Mortain?" cried Beltane wildly, "aye, to Blaen, belike—to silken wantonings and to—death! Tempt me not, O witch—aye, witch that weaveth spells of her beauty—tempt me not I say, lest I slay thee to mine own defence, for I know thee beyond all women fair, yet would I slay thee first—" But, groaning, Beltane cast aside his sword and covered burning eyes with burning palms, yet shook as with an ague fit.