"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.

"So will I make of this hangman the twentieth!" said Walkyn, frowning at Roger.

"'Tis a sweet thought," laughed the archer, "to it, lads, and slay each other as soon as ye may, and my blessings on ye. As for us, Sir Paladin, let us away--'tis true we together might give check to an army, yet, minding Sir Pertolepe's nineteen foresters, 'twere wiser to hie us from Sir Pertolepe's country for the nonce: so march, tall brother--march!"

"Ha!" snarled Walkyn, "fear ye Red Pertolepe yet, bowman? Well, we want ye not, my lord and I, he hath a sword and I an axe--they shall suffice us, mayhap, an Pertolepe come. So hie thee hence with the hangman and save thy rogue's skin."

"And may ye dangle in a noose yet for a prating do-nothing!" growled Roger.

"Oho!" laughed Giles, with a flash of white teeth, "a hangman and a serf--must I slay both?" But, ere he could draw sword, came a voice from the shadows near by--a deep voice, clear and very sweet:

"Oh, children," said the voice, "oh, children of G.o.d, put up your steel and pray for one whose white soul doth mount e'en now to heaven!"

and forth into the light came one clad as a white friar--a tall man and slender, and upon his shoulder he bare a mattock that gleamed beneath the moon. His coa.r.s.e, white robe, frayed and worn, was stained with earth and the green of gra.s.s, and was splashed, here and there, with a darker stain; pale was he, and hollow-cheeked, but with eyes that gleamed 'neath black brows and with chin long and purposeful. Now at sight of him, fierce-eyed Walkyn cried aloud and flung aside his axe and, falling on his knees, caught the friar's threadbare robe and kissed it.

"Good brother!" he groaned, "O, gentle brother Martin, pity me!"

"What, Walkyn?" quoth the friar. "What do ye thus equipped and so far from home?"

"Home have I none, henceforth, O my father."

"Ah! What then of thy wife, Truda--of thy little son?"

"Dead, my father. Red Pertolepe's men slew them this day within the green. So, when I had buried them, I took my axe and left them with G.o.d: yet shall my soul go lonely, methinks, until my time be come."

Then Friar Martin reached out his hand and laid it upon Walkyn's bowed head: and, though the hand was hard and toil-worn, the touch of it was ineffably gentle, and he spake with eyes upraised to heaven:

"O Christ of Pity, look down upon this stricken soul, be Thou his stay and comfort. Teach him, in his grief and sorrow, to pity the woes of others, that, in comforting his fellows, he may himself find comfort."

Now when the prayer was ended he turned and looked upon the others, and, beholding Beltane in his might and glittering mail, he spake, saluting him as one of rank.

"Sir Knight," said he, "do these men follow thee?"

"Aye, verily," cried the archer, "that do I in sooth--_Verb.u.m sat sapienti_--good friar."

"Not so," growled Roger, "'tis but a pestilent archer that seeketh but base hire. I only am my lord's man, sworn to aid him in his vow." "I also," quoth Walkyn, "an so my lord wills?"

"So shall it be," sighed Beltane, his hand upon his throbbing brow.

"And what have ye in mind to do?"

"Forsooth," cried Giles, "to fight, good friar, _manibus pedibusque_."

"To obey my lord," said Roger, "and speak good Saxon English."

"To adventure my body in battle with joyful heart," quoth Walkyn.

"To make an end of tyranny!" sighed Beltane.

"Alas!" said the friar, "within this doleful Duchy be tyrants a many, and ye are but four, meseemeth; yet if within your hearts be room for pity--follow me, and I will show you a sight, mayhap shall nerve you strong as giants. Come!"

So Beltane followed the white friar with the three upon his heels who wrangled now no more; and in a while the friar paused beside a new-digged grave.

"Behold," said he, "the bed where we, each one, must sleep some day, and yet 'tis cold and hard, methinks, for one so young and tender!" So saying he sighed, and turning, brought them to a hut near by, an humble dwelling of mud and wattles, dim-lighted by a glimmering rush. But, being come within the hut Beltane stayed of a sudden and held his breath, staring wide-eyed at that which lay so still: then, baring his head, sank upon his knees.

She lay outstretched upon a bed of fern, and looked as one that sleeps save for the deathly pallor of her cheek and still and pulseless bosom: and she was young, and of a wondrous, gentle beauty.

"Behold," said the friar, "but one short hour agone this was alive--a child of G.o.d, pure of heart and undefiled. These gentle hands lie stilled forever: this sweet, white body (O shame of men!) blasted by brutality, maimed and torn--is nought but piteous clay to moulder in the year. Yet doth her radiant soul lie on the breast of G.o.d forever, since she, for honour, died the death--Behold!" So saying, the friar with sudden hand laid bare the still and marble bosom; and, beholding the red horror wrought there by cruel steel, Beltane rose up, and taking off his cloak, therewith reverently covered the pale, dead beauty of her, and so stood awhile with eyes close shut and spake, soft-voiced and slow, 'twixt pallid lips:

"How--came this--thing?"

"She was captive to Sir Pertolepe, by him taken in a raid, and he would have had her to his will: yet, by aid of my lord's jester, she escaped and fled hither. But Sir Pertolepe's foresters pursued and took her and--so is she dead: may G.o.d requite them!"

"Amen!" quoth Giles o' the Bow, hoa.r.s.e-voiced, "so do they all lie dead within the green!"

"Save one!" said Roger.

"But he sore wounded!" quoth Walkyn.

"How!" cried the friar aghast, "have ye indeed slain Sir Pertolepe's foresters?"

"Nineteen!" nodded Roger, grimly.

"Alas!" cried the friar, "may G.o.d save the poor folk hereabouts, for now will Sir Pertolepe wreak vengeance dire upon them."

"Then," said Beltane, "then must I have word with Sir Pertolepe."

Now when he said this, Black Roger stared agape and even the archer's tongue failed him for once; but Walkyn smiled and gripped his axe.

"Art mad, tall brother!" cried Giles at length, "Sir Pertolepe would hang thee out of hand, or throw thee to his dogs!"

"Lord," said Roger, "Sir Pertolepe hath ten score men-at-arms in Garthlaxton, beside bowmen and foresters."

"There should be good work for mine axe!" smiled Walkyn.

"None the less must I speak with him," said Beltane, and turned him to the door.