Now when the prayer was ended he turned and looked upon the others, and, beholding Beltane in his might and glittering mail, he spake, saluting him as one of rank.
"Sir Knight," said he, "do these men follow thee?"
"Aye, verily," cried the archer, "that do I in sooth--Verbum sat sapienti--good friar."
"Not so," growled Roger, "'tis but a pestilent archer that seeketh but base hire. I only am my lord's man, sworn to aid him in his vow." "I also," quoth Walkyn, "an so my lord wills?"
"So shall it be," sighed Beltane, his hand upon his throbbing brow.
"And what have ye in mind to do?"
"Forsooth," cried Giles, "to fight, good friar, manibus pedibusque."
"To obey my lord," said Roger, "and speak good Saxon English."
"To adventure my body in battle with joyful heart," quoth Walkyn.
"To make an end of tyranny!" sighed Beltane.
"Alas!" said the friar, "within this doleful Duchy be tyrants a many, and ye are but four, meseemeth; yet if within your hearts be room for pity--follow me, and I will show you a sight, mayhap shall nerve you strong as giants. Come!"
So Beltane followed the white friar with the three upon his heels who wrangled now no more; and in a while the friar paused beside a new-digged grave.
"Behold," said he, "the bed where we, each one, must sleep some day, and yet 'tis cold and hard, methinks, for one so young and tender!" So saying he sighed, and turning, brought them to a hut near by, an humble dwelling of mud and wattles, dim-lighted by a glimmering rush. But, being come within the hut Beltane stayed of a sudden and held his breath, staring wide-eyed at that which lay so still: then, baring his head, sank upon his knees.
She lay outstretched upon a bed of fern, and looked as one that sleeps save for the deathly pallor of her cheek and still and pulseless bosom: and she was young, and of a wondrous, gentle beauty.
"Behold," said the friar, "but one short hour agone this was alive--a child of God, pure of heart and undefiled. These gentle hands lie stilled forever: this sweet, white body (O shame of men!) blasted by brutality, maimed and torn--is nought but piteous clay to moulder in the year. Yet doth her radiant soul lie on the breast of God forever, since she, for honour, died the death--Behold!" So saying, the friar with sudden hand laid bare the still and marble bosom; and, beholding the red horror wrought there by cruel steel, Beltane rose up, and taking off his cloak, therewith reverently covered the pale, dead beauty of her, and so stood awhile with eyes close shut and spake, soft-voiced and slow, 'twixt pallid lips: "How--came this--thing?"