In a while cometh Sir Jocelyn and the lady Winfrida, hand in hand, aglow with happiness, yet with eyes moistly bright under the moon.
"Good comrade-in-arms," quoth Beltane, "Mortain lieth far hence; now here is a goodly horse—"
"O!" cried Winfrida shrinking, "surely 'tis the horse that bore Sir
Gilles of Brandonmere in the lists at Barham Broom—"
"So now, my lady Winfrida, shall it bear thee and thy love to Mortain and happiness—O loved Mortain! So mount, Jocelyn, mount! Haste to thy happiness, man, and in thy joy, forget not Pentavalon, for her need is great. And thou hast goodly men-at-arms! How think ye, messire?"
"Beltane," cried Sir Jocelyn gleefully, "Beltane, O dear my friend, doubt me not—I do tell thee we shall ride together yet, when the battle joins!" So saying, be sprang to saddle. Now turned Beltane to aid the lady Winfrida to Sir Jocelyn's hold; but, even then, she fell upon her knees, and catching his hand to her bosom, kissed it.
"Lord Beltane," said she, looking up 'neath glistening lashes—"as thou hast dealt with me, so may heaven deal with thee. May thy sore heart find solace until love find thee—and—dear my lord, I pray you where is—he—the young knight that rode with thee—for where he is, there also is—Helen—"
"And thou dost know, too?"
"I knew her that day in the forest when I fled away, for though I would have confessed my sin to thee, yet her cold scorn I could not have borne. Where is she now, my lord?"
"Safe within Mortain, I pray."
"Then come you to Mortain. Come with us this night—ah! come you to
Mortain and—Helen!"