Forthwith Beltane brought her a stool, rough and rudely fashioned, and while she sat, he lay beside her in the firelight; and thus, despite her hood and wimple, he saw her face was of a calm and noble beauty, smooth and unwrinkled despite the silver hair that peeped forth of her loosened hood. A while they sat thus, nothing speaking, he viewing her, she gazing ever on the fire; at last:
"Thou'rt young, messire," she said wistfully, "yet in thy life hath been much of strife, I've heard. Thou hast known much of hardship, my son, and sorrow methinks?"
"So do I live for that fair day when Peace shall come again, noble lady."
"Full oft have I heard tell of thee, my son, strange tales and marvellous. Some do liken thee to a demon joying in slaughter, and some to an archangel bearing the sword of God."
"And how think you, reverend mother?"
"I think of thee as a man, my son. I have heard thee named 'outlaw' and 'lawless ravener,' and some do call thee 'Beltane the Smith.' Now wherefore smith?"
"For that smith was I bred, lady."
"But thou'rt of noble blood, lord Beltane."
"Yet knew I nought of it until I was man grown."
"Thy youth—they tell me—hath been very lonely, my son—and desolate."