It had been an evening of cloud, but now the sky was clear and the moon shone bright and round as they reached that desolate, wind-swept heath that went by the name of Hangstone Waste, a solitary place at all times but more especially wild and awful 'neath the ghostly moon; wherefore Roger went wide-eyed and fearful, and kept fast hold of Beltane's stirrup.
"Ha--master, master!" cried he 'twixt chattering teeth, "did'st not hear it, master?"
"Nay," answered Beltane, checking his horse, "what was it? where away?"
"'Twas a cry, master--beyond the marsh yonder. 'Tis there again!"
"'Twas an owl, Roger."
"'Twas a soul, master, a poor damned soul and desolate! We shall see dire and dreadful sights on Hangstone Waste this night, master--holy Saint Cuthbert! What was yon?"
"Nought but a bat, Roger."
"A bat, lord? Never think so. Here was, belike, a noble knight or a lusty fellow be-devilled into a bat. Good master, let us go no further --if thou hast no thought for thyself, have a little heed for poor Roger."
"Why look ye, good Roger, canst go where thou wilt, but, as for me, I ride for the White Morte-stone."
"Nay then, an thou'rt blasted this night, master, needs must I be blasted with thee--yonder lieth the Morte-stone, across the waste. And now, may Saint Cuthbert and Saint Bede have us in their blessed care, Amen!"
So they began to cross the rolling desolation of the heath and presently espied a great boulder, huge and solitary, gleaming white and ghostly 'neath the moon.
Being come very nigh, Beltane checked his horse and was about to dismount, when Roger, uttering a sudden gasping cry, cowered to his knees, for in the air about them was a sound very sweet to hear--the whisper of lute-strings softly plucked by skilled and cunning fingers, and thereafter a man's voice, rich and melodious, brake forth into tender singing: and the words were these:-"O moon! O gentle moon, to-night Unveil thy softest, tend'rest light Where feet I love, so small and white, Do bear my love to me!"
"Stand up, Roger, here is nought to harm us, methinks," quoth Beltane softly, "stand up, and hold my bridle."
"But see now, master, there be devil-goblins a many that do pipe like very angels."
"Nathless here's one that I must speak with," said Beltane, slipping to earth and looking about him with wondering eyes, for the voice had seemed to come from the grass at his feet. And while he yet sought to and fro in frowning perplexity the melodious voice brake forth anew: "O little feet, more white than snow, If through the thorny brake ye go, My loving heart I'll set below To take the hurt for thee."