"Holy Saint Cuthbert, art a very sweet and potent saint, and therefore hast good eyes—which is well; so canst thou see him for thyself, how weak he is and languid, that was a mighty man and lusty. Cherish him, I pray thee! A goodly youth thou dost know him, thou didst see him burn a gibbet, moreover I have told thee—and eke a knight of high degree. Yet doth he lie here direly sick of body. Cherish him, I pray! Moreover, sick is he of mind, for that he loveth one, a lady, methinks good and worthy—so bring them together, these twain, not above, as saints in heaven, but first as man and woman that shall beget such men as he, such noble dames as she, and make the world a better place therefor. See you to this matter, good Saint Cuthbert, and also the matter of his Dukedom. But when he shall be Duke indeed, and blest with her that is so fair a maid and apt to motherhood—I pray thee, Saint Cuthbert, let him not forget me whose soul he saved long since within the green in the matter of Beda that was a Jester—I pray thee let him have regard to Black Roger that am his man henceforth to the end. Amen. Holy Saint Cuthbert grant me this."
It was Black Roger, praying in the dawn, his broadsword set upright in the ling, his hands devoutly crossed and his black head stooped full low; thus he saw not Beltane's eyes upon him until his prayer was ended.
Quoth Beltane then:
"May heaven grant thee thy prayer, Roger—'twas a good prayer and I the better for it."
"Why, look now, master," says Roger, somewhat abashed, "I am a something better prayer than I was, and I pray in good Saxon English; thus do I call on Saint Cuthbert, that was a lusty Saxon ere that he was a saint."
"But, Roger, what need to supplicate lest I forget thee? Think you I should forget my faithful Roger?"
"Why, lord," says Roger, busily preparing wherewith to break their fast, "when a man marrieth, see you, and thereafter proceedeth forthwith to get him children, as the custom is—"
"Nay, dost talk folly, Roger!" quoth Beltane, his pale cheek flushing.
"Yet folly thou dost dream of, master, and she also—else wherefore love—"
"Nay, Roger, doth Belsaye lie secure yet? What of Walkyn and our comrades? Marched they to Belsaye as I did command?"