"What fellow?"
"The tall and buxom fellow in the Reeve's garden."
"Ha!" quoth Beltane, frowning. "In the garden, say you—what manner of man is this?"
"O brother—a shapely man, a comely man—a man of words and cunning phrases—a man shall sing you sweet and melodious as any bird—why, I myself can sing no sweeter!"
"Cometh he there often, Giles?"
"Why lord, he cometh and he goeth—I saw him there this morning!"
"What doeth he there?"
"Nay, who shall say—Genevra is wondrous fair, yet so is she that is
Genevra's friend, so do I hope belike 'tis she—"
"Hold thy peace, Giles!"
Now beholding Beltane's fierce eye and how his strong hands clenched themselves, Giles incontinent moved further off and spake in accents soft and soothing: