"Or," said Beltane, "the fool shall charm thy souls to kindliness with his pipe—"
"Ho, Roger!" cried the second forester, "split me this tall talker's yellow sconce, now!"
"Come," growled Roger, threatening of mien, "yield us the fool, 'tis an arrant knave hath angered his lord!"
"What matter for that," said Beltane, "so he hath not angered his God? Come now, ye be hearty fellows and have faces that might be honest, tell me, how long will ye serve the devil?"
"Devil? Ha, what talk be this? We serve no devil!"
"Aye," nodded Beltane, "though they call him Pertolepe the Red, hereabouts."
"Devil!" cried Black Roger aghast. And, falling back a step he gaped in amaze from Beltane to his gaping fellows. "Devil, forsooth!" he gasped, "aha, I've seen many a man hang for less than this—"
"True," sighed Beltane, "men hang for small matters here in Pentavalon, and to hang is an evil death, methinks!"
"So, so!" nodded Black Roger, grim-smiling, "I've watched them kick a fair good while, betimes!"
"Ah!" cried Beltane, his eyes widening, "those hands of thine, belike, have hanged a man ere this?"