Beltane The Smith by Jeffery Farnol

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CHAPTER I

HOW BELTANE LIVED WITHIN THE GREENWOOD

In a glade of the forest, yet not so far but that one might hear the
chime of bells stealing across the valley from the great minster of
Mortain on a still evening, dwelt Beltane the Smith.

Alone he lived in the shadow of the great trees, happy when the piping
of the birds was in his ears, and joying to listen to the plash and
murmur of the brook that ran merrily beside his hut; or pausing 'twixt
the strokes of his ponderous hammer to catch its never failing music.

A mighty man was Beltane the Smith, despite his youth already great of
stature and comely of feature. Much knew he of woodcraft, of the growth
of herb and tree and flower, of beast and bird, and how to tell each by
its cry or song or flight; he knew the ways of fish in the streams, and
could tell the course of the stars in the heavens; versed was he
likewise in the ancient wisdoms and philosophies, both Latin and Greek,
having learned all these things from him whom men called Ambrose the
Hermit. But of men and cities he knew little, and of women and the
ways of women, less than nothing, for of these matters Ambrose spake
not.

Thus, being grown from youth to manhood, for that a man must needs
live, Beltane builded him a hut beside the brook, and set up an anvil
thereby whereon he beat out bill-hooks and axe-heads and such
implements as the charcoal-burners and they that lived within the green
had need of.

Oft-times, of an evening, he would seek out the hermit Ambrose, and
they would talk together of many things, but seldom of men and cities,
and never of women and the ways of women. Once, therefore, wondering,
Beltane had said:

"My father, amongst all these matters you speak never of women and the
ways of women, though history is full of their doings, and all poets
sing praise of their wondrous beauty, as this Helena of Troy, whom men
called 'Desire of the World.'"

But Ambrose sighed and shook his head, saying:

"Art thou indeed a man, so soon, my Beltane?" and so sat watching him
awhile. Anon he rose and striding to and fro spake sudden and
passionate on this wise: "Beltane, I tell thee the beauty of women is
an evil thing, a lure to wreck the souls of men. By woman came sin
into the world, by her beauty she blinds the eyes of men to truth and
honour, leading them into all manner of wantonness whereby their very
manhood is destroyed. This Helen of Troy, of whom ye speak, was nought
but a vile adulteress, with a heart false and foul, by whose sin many
died and Troy town was utterly destroyed."

"Alas!" sighed Beltane, "that one so fair should be a thing so evil!"

Thereafter he went his way, very sad and thoughtful, and that night,
lying upon his bed, he heard the voices of the trees sighing and
murmuring one to another like souls that sorrowed for sin's sake, and
broken dreams and ideals.

"Alas! that one so fair should be a thing so evil!" But, above the
whispers of the trees, loud and insistent rose the merry chatter of the
brook speaking to him of many things; of life, and the lust of life;
the pomp and stir of cities; the sound of song and laughter; of women
and the beauty of women, and of the sweet, mad wonder of love. Of all
these things the brook sang in the darkness, and Beltane sighed, and
sighing, fell asleep.

Thus lived my Beltane in the woodland, ranging the forest with eye
quick to see the beauty of earth and sky, and ear open to the thousand
voices around him; or, busied at his anvil, hearkening to the wondrous
tales of travel and strange adventure told by wandering knight and
man-at-arms the while, with skilful hand, he mended broken mail or dented
casque; and thereafter, upon the mossy sward, would make trial of their
strength and valour, whereby he both took and gave right lusty knocks;
or again, when work failed, he would lie upon the grass, chin on fist,
poring over some ancient legend, or sit with brush and colours,
illuminating on vellum, wherein right cunning was he. Now it chanced
that as he sat thus, brush in hand, upon a certain fair afternoon, he
suddenly espied one who stood watching him from the shade of a tree,
near by. A very tall man he was, long and lean and grim of aspect, with
a mouth wry-twisted by reason of an ancient sword-cut, and yet, withal,
he had a jovial eye. But now, seeing himself observed, he shook his
grizzled head and sighed. Whereat said Beltane, busied with his brush
again:

"Good sir, pray what's amiss?"

"The world, youth, the world--'tis all amiss. Yet mark me! here sit you
a-dabbing colour with a little brush!"

Answered Beltane: "An so ye seek to do your duty as regardfully as I
now daub this colour, messire, in so much shall the world be bettered."

"My duty, youth," quoth the stranger, rasping a hand across his
grizzled chin, "my duty? Ha, 'tis well said, so needs must I now fight
with thee."

"Fight with me!" says Beltane, his keen gaze upon the speaker.

"Aye, verily!" nodded the stranger, and, forthwith, laying by his long
cloak, he showed two swords whose broad blades glittered, red and evil,
in the sunset.

"But," says Beltane, shaking his head, "I have no quarrel with thee,
good fellow."

"Quarrel?" exclaimed the stranger, "no quarrel, quotha? What matter for
that? Surely you would not forego a good bout for so small a matter?
Doth a man eat only when famishing, or drink but to quench his thirst?
Out upon thee, messire smith!"

"But sir," said Beltane, bending to his brush again, "an I should fight
with thee, where would be the reason?"

"Nowhere, youth, since fighting is ever at odds with reason; yet for
such unreasonable reasons do reasoning men fight."

"None the less, I will not fight thee," answered Beltane, deftly
touching in the wing of an archangel, "so let there be an end on't."

"End forsooth, we have not yet begun! An you must have a quarrel, right
fully will I provoke thee, since fight with thee I must, it being so my
duty--"

"How thy duty?"

"I am so commanded."

"By whom?"

"By one who, being dead, yet liveth. Nay, ask no names, yet mark me
this--the world's amiss, boy. Pentavalon groans beneath a black
usurper's heel, all the sins of hell are loose, murder and riot, lust
and rapine. March you eastward but a day through the forest yonder and
you shall see the trees bear strange fruit in our country. The world's
amiss, messire, yet here sit you wasting your days, a foolish brush
stuck in thy fist. So am I come, nor will I go hence until I have tried
thy mettle."

Quoth Beltane, shaking his head, intent upon his work:

"You speak me riddles, sir."

"Yet can I speak thee to the point and so it be thy wish, as thus--now
mark me, boy! Thou art a fool, a dog, a fatuous ass, a slave, a
nincompoop, a cowardly boy, and as such--mark me again!--now do I spit
at thee!"

Hereupon Beltane, having finished the archangel's wing, laid by his
brush and, with thoughtful mien, arose, and being upon his feet, turned
him, swift and sudden, and caught the stranger in a fierce and cunning
wrestling grip, and forthwith threw him upon his back. Whereat this
strange man, sitting cross-legged upon the sward, smiled his wry and
twisted smile and looked upon Beltane with bright, approving eye.

"A pretty spirit!" he nodded. "'Tis a sweet and gentle youth all good
beef and bone; a little green as yet, perchance, but 'tis no matter. A
mighty arm, a noble thigh, and shoulders--body o' me! But 'tis in the
breed. Young sir, by these same signs and portents my soul is uplifted
and hope singeth a new song within me!" So saying, the stranger sprang
nimbly to his feet and catching up one of the swords took it by the
blade and gave its massy hilt to Beltane's hand. Said he:

"Look well upon this blade, young sir; in duchy, kingdom or county you
shall not find its match, nor the like of the terrible hand that bore
it. Time was when this good steel--mark how it glitters yet!--struck
deep for liberty and justice and all fair things, before whose might
oppression quailed and hung its head, and in whose shadow peace and
mercy rested. 'Twas long ago, but this good steel is bright and
undimmed as ever. Ha! mark it, boy--those eyes o' thine shall ne'er
behold its equal!"

So Beltane took hold upon the great sword, felt the spring and balance
of the blade and viewed it up from glittering point to plain and simple
cross-guard. And thus, graven deep within the broad steel he read this
word:

RESURGAM.

"Ha!" cried the stranger, "see you the legend, good youth? Speak me now
what it doth signify."

And Beltane answered:

"'I shall arise!'"

"'Arise' good boy, aye, verily, mark me that. 'Tis a fair thought, look
you, and the motto of a great and noble house, and, by the Rood, I
think, likewise a prophecy!" Thus speaking the stranger stooped, and
taking up the other sword faced Beltane therewith, saying in soft and
wheedling tones: "Come now, let us fight together thou and I, and deny
me not, lest,--mark me this well, youth,--lest I spit at thee again."

Then he raised his sword, and smote Beltane with the flat of it, and
the blow stung, wherefore Beltane instinctively swung his weapon and
thrilled with sudden unknown joy at the clash of steel on steel; and
so they engaged.

And there, within the leafy solitude, Beltane and the stranger fought
together. The long blades whirled and flashed and rang upon the
stillness; and ever, as they fought, the stranger smiled his wry smile,
mocking and gibing at him, whereat Beltane's mouth grew the grimmer and
his blows the heavier, yet wherever he struck, there already was the
stranger's blade to meet him, whereat the stranger laughed fierce and
loud, taunting him on this wise:

"How now, thou dauber of colours, betake thee to thy little brush,
belike it shall serve thee better! Aye me, betake thee to thy little
brush, 'twere better fitted to thee than a noble sword, thou daubing
boy!"

Now did my Beltane wax wroth indeed and smote amain until his breath
grew short and thick, but ever steel rang on steel, and ever the
stranger laughed and gibed until Beltane's strokes grew slower:--then,
with a sudden fierce shout, did the stranger beset my Beltane with
strokes so swift and strong, now to right of him, now to left, that the
very air seemed full of flaming, whirling steel, and, in that moment,
as Beltane gave back, the stranger smote thrice in as many moments with
the flat of his blade, once upon the crown, once upon the shoulder, and
once upon the thigh. Fierce eyed and scant of breath, Beltane
redoubled his blows, striving to beat his mocker to the earth, whereat
he but laughed again, saying:

"Look to thy long legs, dullard!" and forthwith smote Beltane upon the
leg. "Now thine arm, slothful boy--thy left arm!" and he smote Beltane
upon the arm. "Now thy sconce, boy, thy mazzard, thy sleepy, golden
head!" and straightway he smote him on the head, and, thereafter, with
sudden, cunning stroke, beat the great sword from Beltane's grip, and
so, laughing yet, paused and stood leaning upon his own long weapon.

But Beltane stood with bent head, hurt in his pride, angry and beyond
all thought amazed; yet, being humbled most of all he kept his gaze
bent earthwards and spake no word.

Now hereupon the stranger grew solemn likewise and looked at Beltane
with kindly, approving eyes.

"Nay, indeed," quoth he, "be not abashed, good youth; take it not amiss
that I have worsted thee. 'Tis true, had I been so minded I might have
cut thee into gobbets no larger than thy little brush, but then, body
o' me! I have lived by stroke of sword from my youth up and have fought
in divers wars and countries, so take it not to heart, good youth!"
With the word he nodded and, stooping, took up the sword, and,
thereafter, cast his cloak about him, whereat Beltane lifted his head
and spake:

"Art going, sir? Wilt not try me once again? Methinks I might do a
little better this time, an so God wills."

"Aye, so thou shalt, sweet youth," cried the stranger, clapping him
upon the shoulder, "yet not now, for I must begone, yet shall I
return."

"Then I pray you leave with me the sword till you be come again."

"The sword--ha! doth thy soul cleave unto it so soon, my good, sweet
boy? Leave the sword, quotha? Aye, truly--some day. But for the nonce--
no, no, thy hand is not fitted to bear it yet, nor worthy such a blade,
but some day, belike--who knows? Fare thee well, sweet youth, I come
again to-morrow."

And so the tall, grim stranger turned him about, smiling his wry smile,
and strode away through the green. Then Beltane went back, minded to
finish his painting, but the colours had lost their charm for him,
moreover, the light was failing. Wherefore he put brushes and colours
aside, and, stripping, plunged into the cool, sweet waters of a certain
quiet pool, and so, much heartened and refreshed thereby, went betimes
to bed. But now he thought no more of women and the ways of women, but
rather of this stranger man, of his wry smile and of his wondrous
sword-play; and bethinking him of the great sword, he yearned after
it, as only youth may yearn, and so, sighing, fell asleep. And in his
dreams all night was the rushing thunder of many fierce feet and the
roaring din of bitter fight and conflict.

       *       *       *       *       *

Up to an elbow sprang Beltane to find the sun new risen, filling his
humble chamber with its golden glory, and, in this radiance, upon the
open threshold, the tall, grim figure of the stranger.

"Messire," quoth Beltane, rubbing sleepy eyes, "you wake betimes,
meseemeth."

"Aye, sluggard boy; there is work to do betwixt us." "How so, sir?"

"My time in the greenwood groweth short; within the week I must away,
for there are wars and rumours of wars upon the borders."

Quoth Beltane, wondering:

"War and conflict have been within my dreams all night!"

"Dreams, boy! I tell thee the time groweth ripe for action--and, mark
me this! wherein, perchance, thou too shalt share, yet much have I to
teach thee first, so rise, slug-a-bed, rise!"

Now when Beltane was risen and clad he folded his arms across his broad
chest and stared upon the stranger with grave, deep-searching eyes.

"Who art thou?" he questioned, "and what would you here again?"

"As to thy first question, sir smith, 'tis no matter for that, but as
for thy second, to-day am I come to teach thee the use and manage of
horse and lance, it being so my duty."

"And wherefore thy duty?"

"For that I am so commanded."

"By whom?"

"By one who yet liveth, being dead."

Now Beltane frowned at this, and shook his head, saying:

"More riddles, messire? Yet now will I speak thee plain, as thus: I am
a smith, and have no lust to strife or knightly deeds, nor will I e'er
attempt them, for strife begetteth bitter strife and war is an evil
thing. 'They that trust to the sword shall perish by the sword,' 'tis
so written, and is, meseemeth, a faithful saying. This sorry world hath
known over much of war and hate, of strife and bloodshed, so shall
these my hands go innocent of more."

Then indeed did the stranger stare with jaws agape for wonder at my
Beltane's saying, and, so staring, turned him to the door and back
again, and fain would speak, yet could not for a while. Then:

"Besotted boy!" he cried. "O craven youth! O babe! O suckling! Was it
for this thou wert begot? Hast thou no bowels, no blood, no manhood?
Forsooth, and must I spit on thee indeed?"

"And so it be thy will, messire," said Beltane, steady-eyed.

But as they stood thus, Beltane with arms yet crossed, his lips
up-curving at the other's fierce amaze, the stranger grim-faced and
frowning, came a shadow athwart the level glory of the sun, and,
turning, Beltane beheld the hermit Ambrose, tall and spare beneath his
tattered gown, bareheaded and bare of foot, whose eyes were bright and
quick, despite the snow of hair and beard, and in whose gentle face and
humble mien was yet a high and noble look at odds with his lowly guise
and tattered vesture; at sight of whom the grim-faced stranger, of a
sudden, bowed his grizzled head and sank upon his knee.

"Lord!" he said, and kissed the hermit's long, coarse robe. Whereon the
hermit bent and touched him with a gentle hand.

"_Benedicite_, my son!" said he. "Go you, and leave us together a
while."

Forthwith the stranger rose from his knee and went out into the glory
of the morning. Then the hermit came to Beltane and set his two hands
upon his mighty shoulders and spake to him very gently, on this wise:

"Thou knowest, my Beltane, how all thy days I have taught thee to love
all fair, and sweet, and noble things, for they are of God. 'Twere a
fair thought, now, to live out thy life here, within these calm, leafy
solitudes--but better death by the sword for some high, unselfish
purpose, than to live out a life of ease, safe and cloistered all thy
days. To live for thine own ends--'tis human; to die for some great
cause, for liberty, or for another's good--that, my son, were God-like.
And there was a Man of Sorrows Whose word was this, that He came
'not to bring peace on this earth, but a sword.' For good cannot
outface evil but strife must needs follow. Behold now here another
sword, my Beltane; keep it henceforth so long as thou keep honour." So
saying, Ambrose the Hermit took from beneath his habit that for which
Beltane had yearned, that same great blade whereon whose steel was
graven the legend:

RESURGAM.

So Ambrose put the sword in Beltane's hand, saying:

"Be terrible, my son, that evil may flee before thee, learn to be
strong that thou may'st be merciful." Then the hermit stretched forth
his hands and blessed my Beltane, and turned about, and so was gone.

But Beltane stood awhile to swing the great blade lightly to and fro
and to stare upon it with shining eyes. Then, having hid it within his
bed, he went forth into the glade. And here he presently beheld a great
grey horse tethered to a tree hard by, a mettled steed that tossed its
noble head and snuffed the fragrant air of morning, pawing at the earth
with impatient hoof. Now, as he stood gazing, came the stranger and
touched him on the arm.

"Messire," said he, "try an thou canst back the steed yonder."

Beltane smiled, for he had loved horses all his days, and loosing the
horse, led it out into the open and would have mounted, but the
spirited beast, knowing him not, reared and plunged and strove to break
the grip upon the bridle, but the grip was strong and compelling; then
Beltane soothed him with gentle voice and hand, and, of a sudden,
vaulted lightly into the saddle, and being there, felt the great beast
rear under him, and, laughing joyously, struck him with open palm and
set off at a thunderous gallop. Away, away they sped up the sunny
glade, past oak and beech and elm, through light and shadow, until
before them showed a tree of vast girth and mighty spread of branches.
Now would Beltane have reined aside, but the great horse, ears flat and
eyes rolling, held blindly on. Then Beltane frowned and leaning
forward, seized the bridle close beside the bit, and gripping it so,
put forth his strength. Slowly, slowly the great, fierce head was drawn
low and lower, the foam-flecked jaws gaped wide, but Beltane's grip
grew ever the fiercer until, snorting, panting, wild-eyed, the great
grey horse faltered in his stride, checked his pace, slipped, stumbled,
and so stood quivering in the shade of the tree. Thereafter Beltane
turned him and, galloping back, drew rein where the stranger sat,
cross-legged, watching him with his wry smile.

"Aye," he nodded, "we shall make of thee a horseman yet. But as to
lance now, and armour--"

Quoth Beltane, smiling:

"Good sir, I am a smith, and in my time have mended many a suit of
mail, aye, and made them too, though 'twas but to try my hand. As for a
lance, I have oft tilted at the ring astride a forest pony, and
betimes, have run a course with wandering men-at-arms."

"Say you so, boy?" said the stranger, and rising, took from behind a
tree a long and heavy lance and thrust it into Beltane's grip; then,
drawing his sword, he set it upright in the sward, and upon the hilt he
put his cap, saying:

"Ride back up the glade, and try an thou canst pick up my cap on thy
point, at a gallop." So Beltane rode up the glade and wheeling at a
distance, came galloping down with levelled lance, and thundered by
with the cap fluttering from his lance point.

"Art less of a dullard than I thought thee," said the stranger, taking
back his cap, "though, mark me boy, 'tis another matter to ride against
a man fully armed and equipped, lance to lance and shield to shield,
than to charge a harmless, ancient leathern cap. Still, art less of a
dullard than I thought thee. But there is the sword, now--with the
sword thou art indeed but a sorry fool! Go fetch the sword and I will
e'en belabor thee again."

So Beltane, lighting down from the horse that reared and plunged no
more, went and fetched the great sword; and when they had laid their
jerkins by (for the sun was hot) they faced each other, foot to foot
and eye to eye. Then once again the long blades whirled and flew and
rang together, and once again the stranger laughed and gibed and struck
my Beltane how and where he would, nor gave him stay or respite till
Beltane's mighty arm grew aweary and his shoulder ached and burned;
then, when he recked not of it, the stranger, with the same cunning
stroke, beat the sword from Beltane's hand, and laughed aloud and
wagged his head, saying:

"Art faint, boy, and scant o' breath already? Methinks we ne'er shall
make of thee a lusty sworder!" But beholding Beltane's flushing cheek
and drooping eye, reached out and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Go to!" cried he, "art young and all unlearned as yet--heed not my
gibes and quirks, 'tis ever so my custom when steel is ringing, and
mark me, I do think it a good custom, as apt to put a man off his ward
and flurry him in his stroke. Never despair, youth, for I tell thee,
north and south, and east and west my name is known, nor shall you find
in any duchy, kingdom or county, a sworder such as I. For, mark me now!
your knight and man-at-arms, trusting to his armour, doth use his sword
but to thrust and smite. But--and mark me again, boy! a man cannot go
ever in his armour, nor yet be sure when foes are nigh, and, at all
times, 'tis well to make thy weapon both sword and shield; 'tis a
goodly art, indeed I think a pretty one. Come now, take up thy sword
and I will teach thee all my strokes and show thee how 'tis done."

Thus then, this stranger dwelt the week with Beltane in the greenwood,
teaching him, day by day, tricks of sword and much martial lore beside.
And, day by day, a friendship waxed and grew betwixt them so that upon
the seventh morning, as they broke their fast together, Beltane's heart
was heavy and his look downcast; whereat the stranger spake him thus:

"Whence thy dole, good youth?"

"For that to-day needs must I part with thee."

"And thy friends are few, belike?"

"None, messire," answered Beltane, sighing.

"Aye me! And yet 'tis well enough, for--mark me, youth!--friends be
ofttimes a mixed blessing. As for me, 'tis true I am thy friend and so
shall ever be, so long as you shall bear yon goodly blade."

"And wherefore?" questioned Beltane.

"Moreover thou art my scholar, and like, perchance, to prove thyself,
some day, a notable sworder and a sweet and doughty fighter, belike."

"Yet hast never spoken me thy name, messire."

"Why, hast questioned me but once, and then thou wert something of a
blockhead dreamer, methought. But now, messire Beltane, since thou
would'st know--Benedict of Bourne am I called."

Now hereupon Beltane rose and stood upon his feet, staring wide-eyed at
this grim-faced stranger who, with milk-bowl at lip, paused to smile
his wry smile. "Aha!" said he, "hast heard such a name ere now, even
here in the greenwood?"

"Sir," answered Beltane, "betimes I have talked with soldiers and
men-at-arms, so do I know thee for that same great knight who, of all the
nobles of Pentavalon, doth yet withstand the great Duke Ivo--"

"Call you that black usurper 'great,' youth? Body o' me! I knew a
greater, once, methinks!"

"Aye," nodded Beltane, "there was him men called 'Beltane the Strong.'"

"Ha!" quoth Sir Benedict, setting down his milk-bowl, "what know you
of Duke Beltane?"

"Nought but that he was a great and lusty fighter who yet loved peace
and mercy, but truth and justice most of all."

"And to-day," sighed Sir Benedict, "to-day we have Black Ivo! Aye me!
these be sorry days for Pentavalon. 'Tis said he woos the young Duchess
yonder. Hast ever seen Helen of Mortain, sir smith?"

"Nay, but I've heard tell that she is wondrous fair."

"Hum!" quoth Sir Benedict, "I love not your red-haired spit-fires.
Methinks, an Ivo win her, she'll lead him how she will, or be broke in
the adventure--a malison upon him, be it how it may!"

So, having presently made an end of eating, Sir Benedict arose and
forthwith donned quilted gambeson, and thereafter his hauberk of bright
mail and plain surcoat, and buckling his sword about him, strode into
the glade where stood the great grey horse. Now, being mounted, Sir
Benedict stayed awhile to look down at Beltane, whiles Beltane looked
up at him.

"Messire Beltane," said he, pointing to his scarred cheek, "you look
upon my scar, I think?"

Quoth Beltane, flushing hot:

"Nay, sir; in truth, not I."

"Why look now, sweet youth, 'tis a scar that likes me well, though
'twas in no battle I took it, yet none the less, I would not be without
it. By this I may be known among a thousand. 'Benedict o' the Mark,'
some call me, and 'tis, methinks, as fair a name as any. But look now,
and mark me this well, Beltane,--should any come to thee within the
green, by day or night, and say to thee, 'Benedict o' the Mark bids
thee arise and follow,'--then follow, messire, and so, peradventure,
thou shalt arise indeed. Dost mark me well, youth?"

"Aye, Sir Benedict."

"Heigho!" sighed Sir Benedict, "thou'rt a fair sized babe to bear
within a cloak, and thou hast been baptized in blood ere now--and there
be more riddles for thee, boy, and so, until we meet, fare thee well,
messire Beltane!"

So saying, Sir Benedict of Bourne smiled his twisted smile and,
wheeling his horse, rode away down the glade, his mail glistening in
the early light and his lance point winking and twinkling amid the
green.

CHAPTER II

HOW BELTANE HAD WORD WITH THE DUKE, BLACK IVO

Now it fell out upon a day, that as Beltane strode the forest ways,
there met him a fine cavalcade, gay with the stir of broidered
petticoat and ermined mantle; and, pausing beneath a tree, he stood to
hearken to the soft, sweet voices of the ladies and to gaze enraptured
upon their varied beauty. Foremost of all rode a man richly habited, a
man of great strength and breadth of shoulder, and of a bearing high
and arrogant. His face, framed in long black hair that curled to meet
his shoulder, was of a dark and swarthy hue, fierce looking and
masterful by reason of prominent chin and high-arched nose, and of his
thin-lipped, relentless mouth. Black were his eyes and bold; now
staring bright and wide, now glittering 'twixt heavy, narrowed lids;
yet when he smiled they glittered brightest, and his lips showed
moistly red. Beside him rode a lady of a wondrous dark beauty, sleepy
eyed and languid; yet her glance was quick to meet the Duke's bold
look, and, 'neath her mantle, her fingers met, once in a while, and
clung with his, what time his red lips would smile; but, for the most
part, his brow was gloomy and he fingered his chin as one in thought.

As he paced along upon his richly caparisoned steed, pinching at his
long, blue-shaven chin with supple fingers, his heavy brows drawn low,
of a sudden his narrowed lids widened and his eyes gleamed bright and
black as they beheld my Beltane standing in the shade of the tree.

"Aha!" said he, drawing rein, "what insolent, long-legged rogue art
thou, to stand gaping at thy betters?"

And Beltane answered:

"No rogue, messire, but an honest man, I pray God, whom folk call
Beltane the Smith."

The staring eyes grew suddenly narrow, the scarlet mouth curled in a
slow smile, and the tall man spake, yet with his gaze bent ever upon
Beltane:

"Fair lords," he said, "and you, most sweet and gentle ladies, our
sport hath been but poor, hitherto--methinks I can show you a better,
'tis a game we play full oft in my country. Would that our gracious
lady of Mortain were here, nor had balked us of her wilful company. Ho!
Gefroi!" he called, "come you and break me the back of this 'honest'
rogue." And straightway came one from the rear, where rode the servants
and men-at-arms, a great, bronzed fellow, bearded to the eyes of him,
loosing his sword-belt as he came; who, having tossed aside cap and
pourpoint, strode toward Beltane, his eyes quick and bright, his teeth
agleam through the hair of his beard.

"Come, thou forest rogue," said he, "my lord Duke loveth not to wait
for man or maid, so--have at thee!"

Great he looked and tall as Beltane's self, a hairy man of mighty girth
with muscles that swelled on arm and breast and rippled upon his back.
Thus, as he stood and laughed, grimly confident and determined, not a
few were they who sighed for Beltane for his youth's sake, and because
of his golden curls and gentle eyes, for this Gefroi was accounted a
very strong man, and a matchless wrestler withal.

"'Tis a fair match, how think you, Sir Jocelyn?" said the Duke, and
turned him to one who rode at his elbow; a youthful, slender figure
with long curled hair and sleepy eyes, "a fair match, Sir Jocelyn?"

"In very sooth, sweet my lord, gramercy and by your gracious leave--not
so," sighed Sir Jocelyn. "This Gefroi o' thine is a rare breaker of
necks and hath o'er-thrown all the wrestlers in the three duchies; a
man is he, set in his strength and experienced, but this forester, tall
though he be, is but a beardless youth."

The Duke smiled his slow smile, his curving nostrils quivered and were
still, and he glanced toward Sir Jocelyn through veiling lids. Quoth
he:

"Art, rather, for a game of ball, messire, or a song upon a lute?" So
saying he turned and signed to Gefroi with his finger; as for Sir
Jocelyn, he only curled a lock of his long hair, and hummed beneath his
breath.

Now Beltane, misliking the matter, would fain have gone upon his way,
but wheresoever he turned, there Gefroi was also, barring his path,
wherefore Beltane's eye kindled and he raised his staff threateningly.

"Fellow," quoth he, "stand from my way, lest I mischief thee."

But Gefroi only laughed and looked to his lord, who, beckoning an
archer, bid him lay an arrow to his string.

"Shoot me the cowardly rogue so soon as he turn his back," said he,
whereat Gefroi laughed again, wagging his head.

"Come, forest knave," quoth he, "I know a trick to snap thy neck so
sweetly shalt never know, I warrant thee. Come, 'twill take but a
moment, and my lord begins to lack of patience."

So Beltane laid by his staff, and tightening his girdle, faced the
hairy Gefroi; and there befell that, the which, though you shall find
no mention of it in any chronicle, came much to be talked of
thereafter; so that a ballade was writ of it the which beginneth thus:

  'Beltane wrestled in the green
   With a mighty man,
   A goodlier bout was never seen
   Since the world began,'

While Beltane was tightening his girdle, swift and sudden Gefroi
closed, pinning his arms in a cunning hold, and thrice he swung my
Beltane from his feet so that many clapped their hands the while the
squires and men-at-arms shouted lustily. Only Sir Jocelyn curled the
lock of hair upon his finger and was silent.

To him quoth my lord Duke, smiling:

"Messire, an you be in a mind to wager now, I will lay you this my roan
stallion 'gainst that suit of triple mail you won at Dunismere joust,
that Gefroi breaks thy forester's back within two falls--how say you?"

"Sweet my lord, it liketh me beyond telling, thy roan is a peerless
beast!" sighed Sir Jocelyn, and so fell once more to humming his song
beneath his breath.

Now Beltane had wrestled oft with strangers in the greenwood and had
learned many cunning and desperate holds; moreover, he had learned to
bide his time; thus, though Gefroi's iron muscles yet pinned his arms,
he waited, calm-eyed but with every nerve a-quiver, for that moment
when Gefroi's vicious grip should slacken.

To and fro the wrestlers swayed, knee to knee and breast to breast,
fierce and silent and grim. As hath been said, this Gefroi was a very
cunning fellow, and once and twice, he put forth all his strength
seeking to use a certain cruel trick whereby many a goodly man had died
ere now; but once, and twice, the hold was foiled, yet feebly and as
though by chance, and Gefroi wondered; a third time he essayed it
therefore, but, in that moment, sudden and fierce and strong, Beltane
twisted in his loosened grasp, found at last the deadly hold he sought,
and Gefroi wondered no more, for about him was a painful grip that grew
ever tighter and more relentless. Now Gefroi's breath grew short and
laboured, the muscles stood out on his writhing body in knotted cords,
but ever that cruel grip grew more deadly, crushing his spirit and
robbing him of his wonted strength. And those about them watched that
mighty struggle, hushed for wonder of it; even Sir Jocelyn had forgot
his lock of hair, and hummed no more.

For, desperately though he fought and struggled, they saw Gefroi's
great body was bending slowly backward; his eyes stared up, wild and
bloodshot, into the fierce, set face above him; swaying now, he saw the
wide ring of faces, the quiver of leaves and the blue beyond, all a-swim
through the mist of Beltane's yellow hair, and then, writhing in
his anguish, he turned and buried his teeth in Beltane's naked arm, and
with a cunning twist, broke from that deadly grip and staggered free.

Straightway the air was full of shouts and cries, some praising, some
condemning, while Gefroi stood with hanging arms and panted. But
Beltane looking upon his hurt, laughed, short and fierce, and as Gefroi
came upon him, stooped and caught him below the loins. Then Beltane the
strong, the mighty, put forth his strength and, whirling Gefroi aloft,
hurled him backwards over his shoulder. So Gefroi the wrestler fell,
and lay with hairy arms wide-tossed as one that is dead, and for a
space no man spake for the wonder of it.

"By all the Saints, but 'twas a mighty throw!" sighed Sir Jocelyn,
"though alack! sweet my lord, 'twould almost seem my forester hath
something spoiled thy wrestler!"

"And is the roan stallion thine" frowned the Duke, "and to none would I
lose him with a fairer grace, for 'twas a good bout as I foretold: yet,
by the head of St. Martin! meseemeth yon carrion might have done me
better!" So saying, my lord Duke gave his horse the spur and, as he
passed the prostrate form of Gefroi, leaned him down and smote the
wrestler thrice with the whip he held and so rode on, bidding his
followers let him lie.

But Sir Jocelyn paused to look down at Beltane, who was setting his
dress in order.

"Sir forester, thou hast a mighty arm," quoth he, "and thy face liketh
me well. Here's for thee," and tossing a purse to Beltane's feet, he
rode upon his way.

So the gay cavalcade passed 'neath the leafy arches, with the jingle of
bridle and stirrup and the sound of jest and laughter, and was
presently lost amid the green; only Gefroi the wrestler lay there upon
his back and groaned. Then came Beltane and knelt and took his heavy
head upon his knee, whereat Gefroi opened his eyes and groaned again.

"Good fellow," said Beltane, "I had not meant to throw thee so heavily--"

"Nay, forester, would it had been a little harder, for a ruined man am
I this day."

"How so--have you not life?"

"I would 'twere death. And I bit you--in the arm, I mind me?"

"Aye, 'twas in the arm."

"For that am I heartily sorry, forester. But when a man seeth fame and
fortune slipping from him--aye, and his honour, I had nigh forgot that--
fame and fortune and honour, so small a thing as a bite may be
forgiven?"

"I forgive thee--full and freely."

"Spoke like an honest forester," said Gefroi, and groaned again. "The
favour of a lord is a slippery thing--much like an eel--quick to
wriggle away. An hour agone my lord Duke held me in much esteem, while
now? And he struck me! On the face, here!" Slowly Gefroi got him upon
his feet, and having donned cap and pourpoint, shook his head and
sighed; quoth he:

"Alack! 'tis a ruined man am I this day! Would I had broken thy neck,
or thou, mine--and so, God den to ye, forester!" Then Gefroi the
wrestler turned and plodded on his way, walking slow and with drooping
head as one who knoweth not whither he goes, or careth. Now, as he
watched, Beltane bethought him of the purse and taking it up, ran after
Gefroi and thrust it into his hand.

"'Twill help thee to find a new service, mayhap." So saying my Beltane
turned upon his heel and strode away, while Gefroi stood staring wide-eyed
long after Beltane was vanished amid the trees.

So thus it was that Beltane looked his first upon Duke Ivo of
Pentavalon, and thus did he overthrow Gefroi the famous wrestler. And
because of this, many were they, knights and nobles and esquires, who
sought out Beltane's lonely hut beside the brook, with offers of
service, or to try a fall with him. But at their offers Beltane laughed
and shook his head, and all who came to wrestle he threw upon their
backs. And thus my Beltane dwelt within the greenwood, waxing mightier
day by day.

CHAPTER III

HOW LOVE CAME TO BELTANE IN THE GREENWOOD

Upon a day Beltane stood at his forge fashioning an axe-head. And,
having tempered it thereafter in the brook, he laid it by, and
straightening his back, strode forth into the glade all ignorant of the
eyes that watched him curiously through the leaves. And presently as he
stood, his broad back set to the bole of a tree, his blue eyes lifted
heavenwards brimful of dreams, he brake forth into a song he had made,
lying sleepless upon his bed to do it.

Tall and stately were the trees, towering aloft, nodding slumberously
in the gentle wind; fair were the flowers lifting glad faces to their
sun-father and filling the air with their languorous perfume; yet
naught was there so comely to look upon as Beltane the Smith, standing
bare-armed in his might, his golden hair crisp-curled and his lifted
eyes a-dream. Merrily the brook laughed and sang among the willows,
leaping in rainbow-hues over its pebbly bed; sweet piped the birds in
brake and thicket, yet of all their music none was there so good to
hear as the rich tones of Beltane the Smith.

So thought the Duchess Helen of Mortain where she sat upon her white
palfrey screened by the thick-budded foliage, seeing nought but this
golden-locked singer whose voice thrilled strangely in her ears. And
who so good a judge as Helen the Beautiful, whose lovers were beyond
count, knights and nobles and princelings, ever kneeling at her haughty
feet, ever sighing forth vows of service and adoration, in whose honour
many a stout lance had shivered, and many a knightly act been wrought?
Wherefore I say, who so good a judge as the Duchess Helen of Mortain?
Thus Beltane the maker of verses, all ignorant that any heard save the
birds in the brake, sang of the glories of the forest-lands. Sang how
the flowers, feeling the first sweet promise of spring stirring within
them, awoke; and lo! the frost was gone, the warm sun they had dreamed
of through the long winter was come back, the time of their waiting
passed away. So, timidly, slowly, they stole forth from the dark,
unveiling their beauties to their lord the sun and filling the world
with the fragrance of their worship.

Somewhat of all this sang Beltane, whiles the Duchess Helen gazed upon
him wide-eyed and wondering.

Could this be Beltane the Smith, this tall, gentle-eyed youth, this
soft-voiced singer of dreams? Could this indeed be the mighty wrestler
of whom she had heard so many tales of late, how that he lived an
anchorite, deep hidden in the green, hating the pomp and turmoil of
cities, and contemning women and all their ways?

Now, bethinking her of all this, the Duchess frowned for that he was
such a goodly man and so comely to look on, and frowning, mused, white
chin on white fist. Then she smiled, as one that hath a bright thought,
and straightway loosed the golden fillet that bound her glowing
tresses so that they fell about her in all their glory, rippling far
down her broidered habit. Then, the song being ended, forth from her
cover rode the lady of Mortain, and coming close where Beltane leaned
him in the shade of the tree, paused of a sudden, and started as one
that is surprised, and Beltane turning, found her beside him, yet spake
not nor moved.

Breathless and as one entranced he gazed upon her; saw how her long
hair glowed a wondrous red 'neath the kisses of the dying sun; saw how
her purpled gown, belted at the slender waist, clung about the beauties
of her shapely body; saw how the little shoe peeped forth from the
perfumed mystery of its folds, and so stood speechless, bound by the
spell of her beauty. Wherefore, at length, she spake to him, low and
sweet and humble, on this wise:

"Art thou he whom men call Beltane the Smith?"

He answered, gazing at her lowered lashes:

"I am Beltane the Smith."

For a space she sat grave and silent, then looked at him with eyes that
laughed 'neath level brows to see the wonder in his gaze. But anon she
falls a-sighing, and braided a tress of hair 'twixt white fingers ere
she spoke:

"'Tis said of thee that thou art a hermit and live alone within these
solitudes. And yet--meseemeth--thine eyes are not a hermit's eyes,
messire!"

Quoth Beltane, with flushing cheek and eyes abased:

"Yet do I live alone, lady."

"Nor are thy ways and speech the ways of common smith, messire."

"Yet smith am I in sooth, lady, and therewithal content."

Now did she look on him 'neath drooping lash, sweet-eyed and
languorous, and shook her head, and sighed.

"Alas, messire, methinks then perchance it may be true that thou, for
all thy youth, and despite thine eyes, art a mocker of love, a despiser
of women? And yet--nay--sure 'tis not so?"

Then did Beltane the strong come nigh to fear, by reason of her fair
womanhood, and looked from her to earth, from earth to sky, and, when
he would have answered, fell a-stammering, abashed by her wondrous
beauty.

"Nay lady, indeed--indeed I know of women nought--nought of myself, but
I have heard tell that they be--light-minded, using their beauty but to
lure the souls of men from high and noble things--making of love a
jest--a sport and pastime--" But now the Duchess laughed, very soft
and sweeter, far, to Beltane's thinking than the rippling music of any
brook, soever.

"Aye me, messire anchorite," said she smiling yet, "whence had you this
poor folly?"

Quoth Beltane gravely:

"Lady, 'twas from one beyond all thought wise and learned. A most holy
hermit--"

"A hermit!" says she, merry-eyed, "then, an he told thee this, needs
must he be old, and cold, and withered, and beyond the age of love,
knowing nought of women save what memory doth haunt his evil past. But
young art thou and strong, and should love come to thee--as come,
methinks, it may, hearken to no voice but the pleading of thine own
true heart. Messire," she sighed, "art very blind, methinks, for you
sing the wonders of these forest-lands, yet in thy song is never a word
of love! O blind! O blind! for I tell thee nought exists in this great
world but by love. Behold now, these sighing trees love their lord the
sun, and, through the drear winter, wait his coming with wide-stretched,
yearning arms, crying aloud to him in every shuddering blast the tale
of their great longing. And, after some while, he comes, and at his advent
they clothe themselves anew in all their beauty, and with his warm breath
thrilling through each fibre, put forth their buds, singing through
all their myriad leaves the song of their rejoicing. Something the like
of this, messire, is the love a woman beareth to a man, the which, until
he hath felt it trembling in his heart, he hath not known the joy of
living."

But Beltane answered, smiling a little as one that gloried in his
freedom:

"No woman hath ever touched my heart, yet have I lived nor found it
lonely, hitherto."

But hereupon, resting her white fingers on his arm, she leaned nearer
to him so that he felt her breath warm upon his cheek, and there stole
to him the faint, sweet perfume of her hair.

"Beware, O scorner of women! for I tell thee that ere much time hath
passed thou shalt know love--aye, in such fashion as few men know--
wherefore I say--beware, Beltane!"

But Beltane the strong, the mighty, shook his head and smiled.

"Nay," quoth he, "a man's heart may be set on other things, flowers may
seem to him fairer than the fairest women, and the wind in trees
sweeter to him than their voices."

Now as she hearkened, the Duchess Helen grew angry, yet straightway,
she dissembled, looking upon him 'neath drooping lashes. Soft and
tender-eyed and sighing, she answered:

"Ah, Beltane! how unworthy are such things of a man's love! For if he
pluck them, that he may lay these flowers upon his heart, lo! they fade
and wither, and their beauty and fragrance is but a memory. Ah,
Beltane, when next ye sing, choose you a worthier theme."

"Of what shall I sing?" said Beltane.

Very soft she answered, and with eyes abased:

"Think on what I have told thee, and sing--of love."

And so she sighed, and looked on him once, then wheeled her palfrey,
and was gone up the glade; but Beltane, as he watched her go, was
seized of a sudden impulse and over-took her, running.

"Beseech thee," cried he, barring her path, "tell me thy name!"

Then Helen the Beautiful, the wilful, laughed and swerved her palfrey,
minded to leave him so; but Beltane sprang and caught the bridle.

"Tell me thy name," said he again.

"Let me go!"

"Thy name, tell me thy name."

But the Duchess laughed again, and thinking to escape him, smote her
horse so that it started and reared; once it plunged, and twice, and so
stood trembling with Beltane's hand upon the bridle; wherefore a sudden
anger came upon her, and, bending her black brows, she raised her
jewelled riding-rod threateningly. But Beltane only smiled and shook
his head, saying:

"Unless I know thy name thou shalt not fare forth of the greenwood."

So the proud lady of Mortain looked down upon Beltane in amaze, for
there was none in all the Duchy, knight, noble or princeling, who dared
gainsay her lightest word; wherefore, I say, she stared upon this bold
forest knave with his golden hair and gentle eyes, his curved lips and
square chin; and in eyes and mouth and chin was a look of
masterfulness, challenging, commanding. And, meeting that look, her
heart leapt most strangely with sudden, sweet thrill, so that she
lowered her gaze lest he should see, and when she spake her voice was
low and very sweet:

"Tell me I pray, why seek you my name, and wherefore?"

Quoth Beltane, soft and slow as one that dreams:

"I have seen thine eyes look at me from the flowers, ere now, have
heard thy laughter in the brook, and found thy beauty in all fair
things: methinks thy name should be a most sweet name."

Now was it upon her lips to tell him what he asked, but, being a woman,
she held her peace for very contrariness, and blushing beneath his
gaze, looked down and cried aloud, and pointed to a grub that crawled
upon her habit. So Beltane loosed the bridle, and in that moment, she
laughed for very triumph and was off, galloping 'neath the trees. Yet,
as she went, she turned and called to him, and the word she called
was:--

"Helen!"

CHAPTER IV

OF THE LOVE AND THE GRIEF OF HELEN THE PROUD

Long stood Beltane where she had left him, the soft shadows of night
deepening about him, dreaming ever of her beauty, of her wondrous hair,
and of the little foot that had peeped forth at him 'neath her habit,
and, full of these thoughts, for once he was deaf to the soft voices of
the trees nor heard the merry chatter of the brook. But later, upon his
bed he lay awake full long and must needs remember yet another Helen,
with the same wondrous hair and eyes of mystery, for whose sake men had
died and a noble city burned; and, hereupon, his heart grew strangely
heavy and cold with an unknown dread.

Days came and went, and labouring at the forge or lying out in the
sunshine gazing wistfully beyond the swaying tree-tops, Beltane would
oft start and turn his head, fancying the rustle of her garments in
his ears, or her voice calling to him from some flowery thicket; and
the wind in the trees whispered "Helen!" and the brook sang of Helen,
and Helen was in his thoughts continually.

Thus my Beltane forgot his loves the flowers, and sang no more the
wonders of the forest-lands.

And oft-times the Duchess, seated in state within her great hall of
Mortain looking down upon her knights and nobles, would sigh, for none
was there so noble of form nor so comely as Beltane the Smith. Hereupon
her white brow would grow troubled and, turning from them all, she
would gaze with deep, unfathomable eyes, away across the valley to
where, amid the mystery of the trees, Beltane had his lonely dwelling.

Wherefore it was, that, looking up one evening from where he sat busied
with brush and colours upon a border of wondrous design, Beltane beheld
her of whom he was dreaming; and she, standing tall and fair before
him, saw that in his look the which set her heart a-fluttering at her
white breast most strangely; yet, fearing she should betray aught of
it, she laughed gaily and mocked him, as is the way of women, saying:

"Well, thou despiser of Love, I hearkened vainly for thy new song as I
rode hither through the green."

Red grew my Beltane's cheek and he looked not to her as he answered:

"Lady, I have no new song."

"Why then, is thy lesson yet unlearned?" said she. "Have ye no love but
for birds and flowers?" and her red lip curled scornfully.

Quoth Beltane:

"Is there aught more worthy?"

"O Beltane!" she sighed, "art then so simple that such will aye content
thee; doth not thy heart hunger and cry within thee for aught beside?"

Then Beltane bowed his head, and fumbled with his brush and dropped it,
and ere he could reach it she had set her foot upon it; thus it chanced
that his hand came upon her foot, and feeling it beneath his fingers,
he started and drew away, whereat she laughed low and sweet, saying:

"Alack, and doth my foot affright thee? And yet 'tis none so fierce and
none so large that thou shouldst fear it thus, messire--thou who art so
tall and strong, and a mighty wrestler withal!"

Now, looking up, he saw her lips curved and scarlet, and her eyes
brimful of laughter, and fain would he have taken up the brush yet
dared not. Therefore, very humbly, she stooped and lifting the brush
put it in his hand. Then, trembling 'neath the touch of her soft
fingers, Beltane rose up, and that which he had hidden deep within his
heart brake from him.

"Helen!" he whispered, "O Helen, thou art so wondrous fair and belike
of high estate, but as for me, I am but what I am. Behold me" he cried,
stretching wide his arms, "I am but Beltane the Smith; who is there to
love such as I? See, my hands be hard and rough, and would but bruise
where they should caress, these arms be unfitted for soft
embracements. O lady, who is there to love Beltane the Smith?"

Now the Duchess Helen laughed within herself for very triumph, yet her
bosom thrilled and hurried with her breathing, her cheek grew red and
her eyes bright and tender, wherefore she stooped low to cull a flower
ere she answered.

"Beltane," she sighed, "Beltane, women are not as thy flowers, that
embraces, even such as thine, would crush them."

But Beltane stooped his head that he might not behold the lure and
beauty of her, and clenched his hands hard and fierce and thereafter
spake:

"Thou art so wondrous fair," said he again, "and belike of noble
birth, but--as for me, I am a smith!"

Awhile she stood, turning the flower in gentle fingers yet looking upon
him in his might and goodly youth, beholding his averted face with its
strong, sweet mouth and masterful chin, its curved nostrils and the
dreaming passion of his eyes, and when she spake her voice was soft
and very sweet.

"Above all, thou art--a man, messire!"

Then did my Beltane lift his head and saw how the colour was deepened
in her cheek and how her tender eyes drooped before his.

"Tell me," he said, "is there ever a woman to love such a man? Is there
ever a woman who would leave the hum and glitter of cities to walk with
such as I in the shadow of these forest-lands? Speak, Oh speak I do
beseech thee!" Thus said he and stopped, waiting her answer.

"Nay, Beltane," she whispered, "let thine own heart speak me this."

All blithe and glorious grew the world about him as he stooped and
caught her in his arms, lifting her high against his heart. And, in
this moment, he forgot the teaching of Ambrose the Hermit, forgot all
things under heaven, save the glory of her beauty, the drooping languor
of her eyes and the sweet, moist tremor of her mouth. And so he kissed
her, murmuring 'twixt his kisses:

"Fairer art thou than all the flowers, O my love, and sweeter thy
breath than the breath of flowers!"

Thus Helen the Proud, the Beautiful, yielded her lips to his, and in
all the world for her was nought save the deep, soft voice of Beltane,
and his eyes, and the new, sweet ecstasy that thrilled within her.
Surely nowhere in all the world was there such another man as this, so
strong and gentle, so meet for love and yet so virginal. Surely life
might be very fair here in the green solitudes, aye, surely, surely--

Soft with distance came the peal of bells, stealing across the valley
from the great minster in Mortain, and, with the sound, memory waked,
and she bethought her of all those knights and nobles who lived but to
do her will and pleasure, of Mortain and the glory of it; and so she
sighed and stirred, and, looking at Beltane, sighed again. Quoth she:

"Is this great love I foretold come upon thee, Beltane?"

And Beltane answered:

"Truly a man hath not lived until he hath felt a woman's kisses upon
his lips!"

"And thou wilt flout poor Love no more?"

"Nay," he answered, smiling, "'tis part of me, and must be so
henceforth--forever!"

But now she sighed again, and trembled in his arms and clasped him
close, as one beset by sudden fear, while ever soft with distance came
the silvery voices of the bells, low yet insistent, sweet yet
commanding; wherefore she, sighing, put him from her.

"Why then," said she, with drooping head, "fare thee well, messire.
Nay, see you not? Methinks my task is done. And it hath been a--
pleasing task, this--of teaching thee to love--O, would you had not
learned so soon! Fare thee well. Beltane!"

But Beltane looked upon her as one in deep amaze, his arms fell from
her and he stepped back and so stood very still and, as he gazed, a
growing horror dawned within his eyes.

"What art thou?" he whispered.

"Nay, Beltane," she murmured, "ah--look not so!"

"Who art thou--and what?" he said.

"Nay, did I not tell thee at the first? I am Helen--hast thou not
known? I am Helen--Helen of Mortain."

"Thou--thou art the Duchess Helen?" said Beltane with stiffening lips,
"thou the Duchess and I--a smith!" and he laughed, short and fierce,
and would have turned from her but she stayed him with quivering hands.

"And--did'st not know?" she questioned hurriedly, "methought it was no
secret--I would have told thee ere this had I known. Nay--look not so,
Beltane--thou dost love me yet--nay, I do know it!" and she strove to
smile, but with lips that quivered strangely.

"Aye, I love thee, Helen of Mortain--though there be many fair lords to
do that! But, as for me--I am only a smith, and as a smith greatly
would I despise thee. Yet may this not be, for as my body is great, so
is my love. Go, therefore, thy work here is done, go--get thee to thy
knightly lovers, wed this Duke who seeks thee--do aught you will but
go, leave me to my hammers and these green solitudes."

So spake he, and turning, strode away, looking not back to where she
stood leaning one white hand against a tree. Once she called to him but
he heeded not, walking ever with bowed head and hearing only the tumult
within him and the throbbing of his wounded heart. And now, in his pain
needs must he think of yet another Helen and of the blood and agony of
blazing Troy town, and lifting up his hands to heaven he cried aloud:

"Alas! that one so fair should be a thing so evil!"

All in haste Beltane came to his lonely hut and taking thence his cloak
and great sword, he seized upon his mightiest hammer and beat down the
roof of the hut and drave in the walls of it; thereafter he hove the
hammer into the pool, together with his anvil and rack of tools and so,
setting the sword in his girdle and the cloak about him, turned away
and plunged into the deeper shadows of the forest.

But, ever soft and faint with distance, the silvery voices of the bells
stole upon the warm, stilly air, speaking of pomp and state, of pride
and circumstance, but now these seemed but empty things, and the
Duchess Helen stood long with bent head and hands that strove to shut
the sounds away. But in the end she turned, slow-footed amid the
gathering shadows and followed whither they called.

       *       *       *       *       *

But that night, sitting in state within her great hall of Mortain, the
Duchess Helen sighed deep and oft, scarce heeding the courtesies
addressed to her and little the whispered homage of her guest Duke Ivo,
he, the proudest and most potent of all her many wooers; yet to-night
her cheek burned beneath his close regard and her woman's flesh
rebelled at his contact as had never been aforetime. Thus, of a sudden,
though the meal was scarce begun, she arose and stepped down from the
dais, and when her wondering ladies would have followed forbade them
with a gesture. And so, walking proud and tall, she passed out before
them, whereat Duke Ivo's black brow grew the blacker, and he stared
before him with narrowed eyes, beholding which, the faces of my lady's
counsellors waxed anxious and long; only Winfrida, chiefest of the
ladies, watched the Duke 'neath drooping lids and with a smile upon her
full, red lips.

Now the Duchess, being come to her chamber, lifted her hands and tore
the ducal circlet from her brow and cast it from her, and, thereafter,
laid by her rings and jewels, and coming to the open casement fell
there upon her knees and reached forth her pale hands to where, across
the valley, the dark forest stretched away, ghostly and unreal, 'neath
the moon.

"My beloved!" she whispered, "O my beloved!" And the gentle night-wind
bore her secret in its embrace away across the valley to the dim
solitudes of the woods. "Beltane!" she sighed, "love hath come into
mine heart even as it came to thee, when I recked not of it. My
beloved--O my beloved!" Anon she rose and stood awhile with head bowed
as one that dreams, and of a sudden her cheek glowed warmly red, her
breath caught and she gazed upon the moon with eyes of yearning
tenderness; thereafter she laughed, soft and happily and, snatching up
a cloak, set it about her and fled from the chamber. So, swift and
light of foot, she sped by hidden ways until she came where old Godric,
her chief huntsman, busied himself trimming the shaft of a boar-spear,
who, beholding his lady, rose up in amaze.

"Godric," said she, white hands upon his arm, "thou didst love me or
ever I could walk?"

"Aye, verily thou hast said, dear my lady."

"Love you me yet?"

"Truly thou knowest that I love thee."

"Thou hast heard, Godric, how that my counsellors have long desired me
to wed with Duke Ivo, and do yet await my answer to his suit--nay
hearken! So to-night shall my mind be known in the matter once and for
all! Come, my Godric, arm you and saddle two horses--come!"

"Nay, sweet my lady, what would ye?"

"Fly hence with thee, my Godric! Come--the horses!"

"Fly from Mortain, and thou the Duchess? Nay, dear lady, 'tis madness,
bethink thee! O dear my Mistress--O little Helen that I have cherished
all thy days, bethink thee--do not this thing--"

"Godric, did not the Duke, my father, strictly charge thee to follow
ever my call?"

"Aye, my lady."

"Then follow now!" And so she turned and beckoned, and Godric perforce
followed after.

Hand in hand they went a-down the winding stair, down, to the great,
dim courtyard that whispered to their tread. And, thereafter, mounting
in haste, the Duchess galloped from Mortain, unheeding stern old Godric
by her side and with never a look behind, dreaming ever of Beltane with
cheeks that crimsoned 'neath her hood.

Fast and faster she rode 'neath the pale moon, her eyes ever gazing
towards the gloom of the forest, her heart throbbing quick as the
hoof-beats of her horse. So at last, being come to that glade whereby
Beltane had his dwelling, she lighted down, and bidding Godric wait,
stole forward alone.

Autumn was at hand, and here and there the fallen leaves rustled sadly
under foot while the trees sighed and mourned together for that the
flowers so soon must wither and die. But in the heart of the Duchess
Helen, Spring was come, and all things spake to her of coming joys
undreamed till now as she hasted on, flitting through the pallid
moonbeams that, falling athwart rugged hole and far-flung branch,
splashed the gloom with radiant light. Once she paused to listen, but
heard nought save the murmur of the brook and the faint stirring of
leaves. And now, clear and strong the tender radiance fell athwart the
lonely habitation and her heart leapt at the sight, her eyes grew moist
and tender and she hurried forward with flying steps, then--beholding
the ruin of thatch and wall, she stopped and stood aghast, gazing
wide-eyed and with her heart numb in her bosom. Then she shivered, her
proud head drooped and a great sob brake from her, for that she knew she
was come too late, her dreams of wandering with Beltane through sunny
glades were nought but dreams after all. Beltane the Smith was gone!

Then a great loneliness and desolation came upon her and, sinking down
at the foot of that tree whereby he had been wont to lean so often, her
yearning arms crept about its rugged hole and she lay there in the
passion of her grief weeping long and bitterly.

But the gentle trees ceased mourning over their own coming sorrow in
wonder at the sight, and bending their heads together, seemed to
whisper one to the other saying:

"He is gone, Beltane the Smith is gone!"

CHAPTER V

WHICH TELLS OF THE STORY OF AMBROSE THE HERMIT

Deep, deep within the green twilight of the woods Ambrose the Hermit
had builded him a hut; had built and framed it of rude stones and
thatched it with grass and mosses. And from the door of the hut he had
formed likewise a path strewn thick with jagged stones and sharp
flints, a cruel

Question: Summarize the above passage in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it.