"O messire!" said a faint voice hard by, "if ye have any pity save me from the crone—for the love of Christ let not the hag slay me as she hath so many—save me!"
Starting round, Beltane espied a pale face that glared up at him from a thick furze-bush beside the way, a youthful face albeit haggard and drawn.
"Fear not!" said Beltane, kneeling beside the wounded youth, "thy life is safe from us. But what mean you by talk of hag and crone?"
"Ah, messire, to-day, ere the dawn, we fell upon Sir Benedict of Bourne—a seditious lord who hath long withstood Duke Ivo. But though his men were few they fought hard and gained the ford ahead of us. And in the fight I, with many others as ye see, was smitten down and the fight rolled on and left us here in the dust. As I lay, striving to tend my hurt and hearkening to the sighs and groans of the stricken, I heard a scream, and looking about, beheld an ancient woman—busied with her knife—slaying—slaying and robbing the dead—ah, behold her—with the black-haired archer—yonder!"
And verily Roger stepped forth of the underwood that clothed the steep, dragging a thing of rags and tatters, a wretched creature, bent and wrinkled, that mopped and mowed with toothless chaps and clutched a misshapen bundle in yellow, talon-like fingers, and these yellow fingers were splotched horribly with dark stains even as were the rags that covered her. She whined and whimpered querulously, mouthing inarticulate plaints and prayers as Roger haled her along, with Cnut and Walkyn, fierce and scowling, behind. Having brought her to Beltane, Roger loosed her, and wrenching away her bundle, opened it, and lo! a yellow-gleaming hoard of golden neck-chains, of rings and armlets, of golden spurs and belt-buckles, the which he incontinent scattered at Beltane's feet; whereon the gibbering creature screamed in high-pitched, cracked and ancient voice, and, screeching, threw herself upon the gold and fell to scrabbling among the dust with her gnarled and bony fingers; and ever as she raked and raked, she screeched harsh and high—a hateful noise that ended, of a sudden, in a wheezing sob, and sinking down, she lay outstretched and silent, her wrinkled face in the dust and a cloth-yard shaft transfixing her yellow throat.
So swift had death been dealt that all men fell back a pace and were yet staring down at this awful dead thing when forth from the brush an archer crawled painfully, his bow yet in his hand, and so lay, panting loud and hoarse.
"Ha!" cried Cnut, "'tis lusty Siward of our archers! How now, Siward?"
"I'm sped, Cnut!" groaned Siward, "but yon hag lieth dead, so am I— content. I've watched her slay John that was my comrade, you'll mind— for his armlet. And—good Sir Hugh she stabbed,—yonder he lieth—him she slew for—spurs and chain. When I fell I—dropped my bow—in the brush, yonder—I have been two hours creeping—a dozen yards to—reach my bow but—I got it at last—Aha!" And Siward, feebly pointing to the ancient, dead woman, strove to laugh and so—died.
Then Beltane turned, and coming beside the wounded youth spake him tender and compassionate.
"Young sir, we must hence, but first can I do aught forthee?"