Down sprang Beltane fierce-eyed, trampling the tender flowers under cruel feet, and as he in turn passed behind the hedge the moon glittered evilly on his dagger blade. Quick and soft of foot went he until, beholding a faint light amid the leaves, he paused, then hasted on and thus came to an arbour bowered in eglantine.
She sat at a table where burned a rushlight that glowed among the splendour of her hair, for her head was bowed above the letter she was writing.
Now as he stood regarding her 'neath frowning brows, she spake, yet lifted not her shapely head.
"Well, my lord?"
"Helen, where is he that came here but now?"
Slowly she lifted her head, and setting white hands 'neath dimpled chin, met his frown with eyes of gentleness.
"Nay, first put up thy dagger, my lord."
"Helen," said he again, grim-lipped, "whom dost wait for?"
"Nay, first put up thy dagger, messire."
Frowning he obeyed, and came a pace nearer.