"O foolish youth—O youthful fool!" quoth he, "surely thou of all fools art greatest, a youthful, god-like fool! O mighty son of mighty father, how mighty hath thy folly been! O lovely lad that hath attempted deeds impossible, pitting thyself 'gainst Ivo and all his might! Verily, Beltane, thou'rt the loveliest fool that ever man did love—"
"Nay, but dear messire," says Beltane as Sir Benedict stayed for breath, "pray thee, where is thy meaning?"
"Sweet lad, I do but strive to tell thee thou'rt a fool, yet so glad am I of thy foolish company the words do stick somewhat, but my meaning shall be manifest—now mark me! Didst not carry off the Red Pertolepe 'neath the lances of his men-at-arms?"
"Aye, my lord."
"Didst not have thy hand on the throat of that cold, smiling rogue Sir
Gui of Allerdale?"
"Verily, messire."
"And hold within thy grasp the life of that foul-living Gilles of
Brandonmere, whose father I slew twelve years agone, I thank God!"
"'Tis true, good Benedict."
"And didst not suffer these arch-knaves to live on and work their pestilent wills, Beltane?"
"Sir, I did, but—"