"Nay, Benedict, am none so youthful."
"Thy very speech doth prove thee so, yet, being boy, thou art forsooth a man to-day."
"And wherefore?"
"For that to-day I do know more of thee. 'Tis suffering, 'tis sorrow nobly borne doth make the man, Beltane."
"Suffering, messire?"
"Yon lock of hair showeth very white amid the gold, Beltane, but thou art better man therefore, methinks. The fetters of thy dungeon yet gleam upon thy wrists, Beltane. But truly I do think within thy prison was forged the sword shall avenge our woes and free Pentavalon at last."
"Think you indeed, thou wise Benedict, that we by grief and sorrow do rise to find our nobler selves?"
"Aye verily! 'Tis but by sorrow and suffering our strength or weakness groweth manifest, Beltane."
"Yet—O Benedict—I did doubt her—plied her with scornful tongue and— drave her lonely from me!"
"And dost grieve amain, and sorrow therefore, O youth!"