"Aye, forsooth, master. She that the good Saint Cuthbert shall give to thy close embracements one day."
"Think you so?" spake Beltane beneath his breath, and staring across the sunny glade with eyes of yearning, "think you so indeed, Roger?"
"Of a surety, lord," nodded Roger, "seeing that I do plague the good saint on the matter continually—for, master, when I pray, I do pray right lustily."
So, in a while, the meal done and crock and pannikin washed and set aside, Beltane's leg is bathed and dressed right skilfully with hands, for all their strength and hardness, wondrous light and gentle. Thereafter, stretched upon his bed of heather, Beltane watches Black Roger gird on belt and quiver, and, bow in hand, stride blithely into the green, and, ere he knows it, is asleep. And in his sleep, beholds one who bends to kiss him, white hands outstretched and all heaven in her eyes; and with her voice thrilling in his ears, wakes, to find the sun already westering and Black Roger near by, who, squatting before a rough table he has contrived set close beside the fire whereon a cooking pot seethes and bubbles, is busied with certain brewings, infusings and mixings in pipkin and pannikin, and all with brow of frowning portent.
Whereat says Beltane, wondering:
"What do ye, good Roger?"
"Master, I mix thee thy decoction as She did instruct—She is a learned youth, master—Sir Fidelis. In these dried herbs and simples, look you, lieth thy health and strength and Pentavalon's freedom—aye, a notable youth in faith, thy Duchess."
Hereupon Beltane, remembering his dream, must needs close his eyes that he may dream again, and is upon the portal of sleep when Roger's hand rouses him.
"What would'st, Roger?"
"Master—thy draught."