"She is in for Mortain, Roger, moreover—"
"Nay, master, forsooth she is—hum! aye, she's in Mortain, mayhap, but 'tis none so far to Mortain for such legs as thine and mine. And belike we may—chance upon her by the way, or—or she with us, or both!"
"Even so, needs must I to my duty."
"Thy duty!—aye, master—thy duty is to woo her, wed her, take her to thy arms and—"
"I tell thee, Roger, ne'er will I speak word of love to her until I have proved myself in some sense fit and worthy. First will I free Pentavalon as I did swear—"
"Nay, master, wed first thy Duchess, so shall she aid thee in thy vows, and thereafter—"
"Enough!" cried Beltane, "think ye 'tis so easy to thus gainsay the love that burns me? But shame were it that I, beggared in fortune, my friends few, should wed her in my dire need, dragging thereby peaceful Mortain to mine aid and the bloody arbitrament of battle. Moreover, hast forgot the oath I sware—that nought henceforth should let or stay me?"
"Master," sighed Roger, "there be times, methinks, thou dost swear over-many oaths. Art man and woman full of youth and love, wherefore not marry? Wherefore heed a vow here or there? Needs must I wrestle with the good Saint Cuthbert in the matter."
But here Beltane fell again to meditation and Roger likewise. So came they presently to the forest-road, and turning north towards Winisfarne they strode on, side by side, in silence profound and deep. And of a sudden upon this silence, rose a voice high-pitched and quavering:
"O ye that have eyes, have pity—show mercy on one that is maimed and helpless, and creepeth ever in the dark."