Now went they in silence again for that Beltane dreamed of many things while Roger marvelled within himself, oft turning to look on my Beltane's radiant face, while ever his wonder grew; so oft did he turn thus to gape and stare that Beltane, chancing to meet his look, smiled and questioned him, thus: "Why gape ye on me so, Roger man?"
"For wonder, master."
"Wherefore?"
"To see thee so suddenly thyself again--truly Saint Cuthbert is a potent saint!"
"And thou a sturdy pray-er, good Roger."
"And most vile sinner, lord. Howbeit I have dared supplicate on thy behalf and behold! thou art indeed thyself again--that same sweet and gentle youth that smote me on my knavish mazzard with thy stout quarter-staff in Shevening Thicket in the matter of Beda, Red Pertolepe's fool--a dour ding, yon, master--forsooth, a woundy rap!"
Now fell they to thoughtful silence again, but oft Black Roger's stride waxed uneven, and oft he stumbled in his going, wherefore Beltane slackened his pace.
"What is it, Roger?"
"Naught but my legs, master. Heed 'em not."
"Thy legs?"
"They be shorter than thine, lord, and love not to wag so fast. An thou could'st abate thy speed a little--a very little, master, they shall thank thee dearly."
"Art so weary, Roger?"
"Master, I was afoot ere sunrise."
"Why truly, Roger. Yet do I, to mine own selfish ends, keep thee from thy slumber thus. Verily a selfish man, I!"
"Not so, master, indeed--"
"So now will we halt, and thou shalt to thy rest."
"Why then, lord, let us to the Hollow--it lieth scarce a mile through the brush yonder, and 'twas there I did appoint for Walkyn to meet with thee again--so shall we sleep secure; moreover I have a feeling--as it were one calling us thither, a wondrous strange feeling, master! Mayhap we shall come by news of Walkyn there--"
"'Tis well bethought, Roger. Come thy ways."
Forthwith turned they from the forest-road, and forcing their way through a leafy tangle, presently came out into a ride, or narrow glade; but they had gone only a very little distance when they espied the red glow of a fire within a thicket hard by, and therewith the sound of voices reached them: "Three great bags, I tell thee!" cried one voice, high and querulous, "three great, fair and goodly bags full crammed of sweet gold pieces! All my lord Duke's revenue of Winisfarne and the villages adjacent thereunto! Taxes, see ye, my lord Duke's taxes--and all stolen, reft, and ravished from me, Guido, Steward and Bailiff of the northern Marches, by clapper-claws and raveners lewd and damned! Woe's me for my lord's good money-bags!"