"Art wondrous skilled in wood-lore, my Rogerkin!" quoth Giles. "Forsooth, lord, there is no man knoweth more of forestry than my good comrade Roger!"
"So will I make of him my chiefest huntsman, Giles--"
"Master--O master!" gasped Roger.
"And set thee over all my foresters of Pentavalon, Roger."
"Why master, I--forsooth I do love the greenwood--but lord, I am only Roger, and--and how may I thank thee--"
"Come!" cried Beltane, and spurred to a gallop.
Thus rode they through the leafy by-ways, avoiding town and village; yet oft from afar they heard the joyous throb of bells upon the air, or the sound of merry voices and happy laughter from village commons where folk rejoiced together that Ivo's iron yoke was lifted from them at last. But Beltane kept ever to the woods and by-ways, lest, being recognised, he should be stayed longer from her of whom he dreamed, bethinking him ever of the deep, shy passion of her eyes, the soft tones of her voice, the clinging warmth of her caress, and all the sweet, warm beauty of her. Betimes they crossed the marches into Mortain, but it was late evening ere they saw at last the sleepy manor of Blaen, its white walls and steepy roofs dominated by its one square watch-tower, above which a standard, stirring lazily in the gentle air, discovered the red lion of Pentavalon.
And now Beltane's breath grew short and thick, his strong hand trembled on the bridle, and he grew alternate hot and cold. So rode they into the echoing courtyard whither hasted old Godric to welcome them, and divers servants to take their horses. Being ushered forthwith into the garden, now who so silent and awkward as my Beltane, what time his lady Duchess made known to him her gentle ladies, among whom sweet Genevra, flushed of cheek, gazed breathless upon Giles even as Giles gazed upon her--who so mumchance as Beltane, I say, who saw and heard and was conscious only of one among them all. And who so stately, so calm-voiced and dignified as this one until--aye, until they stood alone together, and then-To see her sway to his fierce arms, all clinging, yearning womanhood, her state and dignity forgotten quite! To hear her voice soft and low and all a-thrill with love, broken with sighs and sinking to passionate-whispered questioning: "And thou art come back to me at last. Beltane! Hast brought to me my heart unharmed from the battle, beloved! And thou didst take no hurt-- no hurt, my Beltane? And art glad to see--thy--wife, Beltane? And dost love me--as much as ever, Beltane? O wilt never, never leave me desolate again, my lord--art thou mine--mine henceforth as I am thine, Beltane? And wilt desire me ever near thee, my lord?"