"'Twas an owl, Roger."
"'Twas a soul, master, a poor damned soul and desolate! We shall see dire and dreadful sights on Hangstone Waste this night, master—holy Saint Cuthbert! What was yon?"
"Nought but a bat, Roger."
"A bat, lord? Never think so. Here was, belike, a noble knight or a lusty fellow be-devilled into a bat. Good master, let us go no further —if thou hast no thought for thyself, have a little heed for poor Roger."
"Why look ye, good Roger, canst go where thou wilt, but, as for me, I ride for the White Morte-stone."
"Nay then, an thou'rt blasted this night, master, needs must I be blasted with thee—yonder lieth the Morte-stone, across the waste. And now, may Saint Cuthbert and Saint Bede have us in their blessed care, Amen!"
So they began to cross the rolling desolation of the heath and presently espied a great boulder, huge and solitary, gleaming white and ghostly 'neath the moon.
Being come very nigh, Beltane checked his horse and was about to dismount, when Roger, uttering a sudden gasping cry, cowered to his knees, for in the air about them was a sound very sweet to hear—the whisper of lute-strings softly plucked by skilled and cunning fingers, and thereafter a man's voice, rich and melodious, brake forth into tender singing: and the words were these:—
"O moon! O gentle moon, to-night
Unveil thy softest, tend'rest light
Where feet I love, so small and white,
Do bear my love to me!"
"Stand up, Roger, here is nought to harm us, methinks," quoth Beltane softly, "stand up, and hold my bridle."