Quoth Beltane, his aching head upon his hand:
"Whither?"
"To death if needs be, for a man must die soon or late, yet die but once whether it be by the steel, or flame, or rope. So what matter the way of it, if I may stand with this my axe face to face with Gilles of Brandonmere, or Red Pertolepe of Garthlaxton Keep: 'twas for this I followed his foresters."
"Who and whence are you?"
"Walkyn o' the Dene they call me hereabouts—though I had another name once—but 'twas long ago, when I marched, a lad, 'neath the banner of Beltane the Strong!"
"What talk be this?" grunted Black Roger, threatening of mien, "my lord and I be under a vow and must begone, and want no runaway serf crawling at our heels!"
"Ha!" quoth Walkyn, "spake I to thee, hangman? Forsooth, well do I know thee, Roger the Black: come ye into the glade yonder, so will I split thy black poll for thee—thou surly dog!"
Forth leapt Black Roger's sword, back swung Walkyn's glittering axe, but Beltane was between, and, as they stood thus came Giles o' the Bow:
"Oho!" he laughed, "must ye be at it yet? Have we not together slain of
Sir Pertolepe's foresters a round score?—"
"'Twas but nineteen!" growled Roger, frowning at Walkyn.