Quoth Beltane, staring: "Now what aileth the maid, think ye? But 'tis no matter--we are well quit of her, meseemeth." So saying, he turned to behold Roger flat upon his belly and with his ear to the ground.
"Master," cried he, "master, there be horsemen i' the forest hereabouts--a great company!"
"Why then, do you mount, Roger, and hie thee with Sir Fidelis hot-foot to Walkyn at Hundleby Fen. Bid him set our bowmen in every place of vantage, and let every man stand to arms. So mayhap, Roger, will we this day make hunted men of them that hunt!" So saying, Beltane swung to saddle.
"Aye--aye--but what o' thee, master?"
"Mark ye this horse, Roger. Thou hast said 'twas of good speed and endurance, and methinks 'tis sooth. Howbeit, now shall he prove thy word, for here I wait the hunters, and to-day will I, keeping ever out of bow-shot, lead them through every quag, every bog and marsh 'twixt here and Hundleby Fen, and of those that follow still, thou and Walkyn and our merry men shall make an end, I pray God. So let all lie well hid, and watch for my coming. And now--farewell to thee, Roger."
"But, master," quoth Roger, waxing rueful, "in this thou must run dire perils and dangers, and I not with thee. So pray thee let Sir Fidelis-- hard!--Ha!--now God aid us--hark to that! Master, they've loosed the dogs on us!"
Even as he spake, very faint and far as yet but plain to hear above the leafy stirring, the deep baying of a hound came down the wind.
"Hunting-dogs, master! Ride--ride!" quoth Roger, wiping sweat from him, "O sweet Christ forgive me, for I have hunted down poor rogues with such ere now--"
"Forsooth, Roger, and now is their turn to hunt thee, mayhap. Howbeit, ride you at speed, and you, sir knight also, get you gone, and whatsoever betide, Roger, wait you at Hundleby Fen for me. Go--obey me!" So, looking upon Beltane with eyes of yearning, Black Roger perforce wheeled and rode out into the glade, and striking spurs to his eager steed, galloped swiftly away. Now turned Beltane upon Sir Fidelis: "How, messire--are ye not gone?"
Then answered Sir Fidelis, his drooping head averted: "Thou seest, my lord--I go beside thee according to thy word--"
"Presumptuous youth, I want thee not!"
"The day will yet come, perchance, my lord--and I can be patient--"
"Ha--dost defy me?"
"Not so, my lord--nor do I fear thee. For I do know thee better than thyself, so do I pity thee--pity thee--thou that art so mighty and yet so weak. Thou art a babe weeping in a place of shadows, so will I go beside thee in the dark to soothe and comfort thee. Thou art a noble man, thy better self lost awhile 'neath sickly fancies--God send they soon may pass. Till then I can be very patient, my lord Beltane."