"What now?" questioned Beltane, staring into the murk.
"My lord--my lord, a woman lieth here, and--ah, messire--she is dead!"
"O, a woman?" quoth Beltane, "and dead, say you? Why then, the world shall know less of evil and treachery, methinks. Come--mount, sir knight, mount, I say, and let us on!"
But Sir Fidelis, on his knees beside that silent, dim-seen form, heeded him not at all, and with reverent, folded hands, and soft and tender voice, spake a prayer for the departed soul. Now hereupon Beltane knew sudden shame and swift remorse, and bowed his head also, and would have prayed--yet could not; wherefore his black mood deepened and his anger grew more bitter.
"Mount, mount, sir knight!" cried he harshly. "Better to seek vengeance dire than mumble on thy knees--mount, I say!"
Forthwith Sir Fidelis arose, nothing speaking, and being in the saddle, reined back and suffered Beltane to ride alone. But in a while, Beltane perceiving himself thus shunned, found therein a new grievance and fiercely summoned Sir Fidelis beside him.
"Wherefore slink ye behind me?" he demanded.
Then spake Sir Fidelis in voice full low and troubled: "My lord Beltane, 'twas said thou wert a noble knight--very strong and very gentle--"
"Ha! dost think such report a lie, mayhap?"
"Alas!" sighed the young knight; and again "alas!" and therewith a great sob brake from him.
Of a sudden, from the gloom beside the way rose a woman's scream, and thereafter a great and fierce roar; and presently came Walkyn with his torch and divers of his men, dragging a woman in their midst, and lo! it was the witch of Hangstone Waste.
Now she, beholding Beltane's face beneath his lifted vizor, cried out for very joy: "Now heaven bless thee, Duke Beltane! Ah, my lord--hear me!"
"What would ye? What seek ye of such as I?"
But hereupon Black Roger spurred beside Beltane, his eyes wide and fearful in the shadow of his helm, his strong, mailed hand a-tremble on Beltane's arm.
"Beware, my lord, beware!" he cried, "'tis nigh the midnight hour and she a noted witch--heed her not lest she blight thy fair body, lest she--"
"Peace, Roger! Now speak, woman--what would ye?"
"A life, my lord!"
"Ah, the blessed saints forfend--I feared so!" gasped Roger.
But now the witch turned and looked on Roger, and he incontinent crossed himself and fell thenceforth to mumbling prayers beneath his breath.
"Lord Duke, for that I am but a woman poor and helpless, now would I beseech thine aid for--"
"Nay, tell me first, whence come ye?"
"From Barham Broom, messire. Ah! spare aid for one that lieth in peril of death--the maid Mellent--they do proclaim her witch--they will burn her--"