"O surely, surely I am mad," quoth he wondering, "or I do dream. For she I seek is a woman, gentle and prone to forgiveness, one beyond all women fair and brave and noble, in whose pure heart can nothing evil be, in whose gentle eyes her gentle soul lieth mirrored, whose tender lips be apt and swift to speak mercy and forgiveness. Even as her soft, kind hands did bind up my wounds, so methought she with gentle sayings might heal my grieving heart—and now—now—"
"O my lord," she sighed, bending over idle fingers, "methinks you came seeking an angel of heaven and find here—only a woman."
"Yet 'tis this woman I do love and ever must—'tis this woman I did know as Fidelis—"
"Alas!" she sighed again, "alas, poor Fidelis, thou didst drive him from thee into the solitary wild-wood. So is poor Fidelis lost to thee, methinks—"
"Nay, Helen—O Helen, be just to me—thou dost know I loved Fidelis—"
"Yet thou didst spurn and name him traitor and drave him from thee!"
Now of a sudden he strode towards her, and as he came her bosom swelled, her lashes drooped, for it seemed he meant to clasp her to his heart. But lo! being only man, my Beltane paused and trembled, and dared not touch her, and sinking before her on his knees, spake very humbly and with head low-bowed.
"Helen—show me a little mercy!" he pleaded. "Would'st that I abase myself? Then here—here behold me at thy feet, fearing thee because of my unworthiness. But O believe—believe, for every base doubt of thee this heart hath known, now doth it grieve remorseful. For every harsh and bitter word this tongue hath spoke thee, now doth it humbly crave thy pitiful forgiveness! But know you this, that from the evil hour I drave thee from me, I have known abiding sorrow and remorse, for without thee life is indeed but an empty thing and I a creature lost and desolate—O Helen, pity me!"
Thus spake he, humble and broken, and she, beholding him thus, sighed (though wondrous softly) and 'neath her long lashes tears glittered (though swift dashed away) but—slowly, very slowly, one white hand came out to him, faltered, stopped, and glancing up she rose in haste and shrank away. Now Beltane, perceiving only this last gesture, sprang up, fierce-eyed:
"How?" quoth he, "am I then become a thing so base my presence doth offend thee—then, as God liveth, ne'er shalt see me more until thou thyself do summon me!"