"Nathless, I am not cold, lady."
"Then wherefore tremble?"
"Nay, I--I know not. In sooth, do I so, lady?"
"Verily, sir, and therewith sigh, frequent and O, most dolorous to hear!"
Now at this, my Beltane finding naught to say, straightway sighed again; and thus they rode awhile, speaking nothing.
"Think you we are safe, messire?" she questioned him at last.
"Tis so I pray, lady."
"Thou hast done right valiantly to-night on my behalf," says she. "How came you in at the window?"
"By means of a tree, lady."
"Art very strong, messire, and valiant beyond thought. Thou hast this night, with thy strong hand, lifted me up from shameful death: so, by right, should my life be thine henceforth." Herewith she sighed, leaning closer upon his breast, and Beltane's desire to see her face grew amain.
"Messire," said she, "methinks art cold indeed, or is it that I weary thee?"
"Nay, thou'rt wondrous easy to bear thus, lady."
"And whither do ye bear me, sir--north or south? And yet it mattereth nothing," says she, soft-voiced, "since we are safe--together!" Now hereafter, as Beltane rode, he turned his eyes full oft to heaven-- yearning for the moon.
"What woods be these, messire?" she questioned.
"'Tis the wilderness that lieth betwixt Pentavalon and Mortain, lady."
"Know ye Mortain, sir?"
"Yea, verily," he answered, and sighed full deep. And as he sighed, lo, in that moment the moon peeped forth of a cloud-rift and he beheld the nun looking up at him with eyes deep and wistful, and, as she gazed, her lips curved in slow and tender smile ere her lashes drooped, and sighing, she hid her face against him in the folds of her mantle, while Beltane must needs bethink him of other eyes so very like, and yet so false, and straightway--sighed.
"Messire," she murmured, "pray now, wherefore do ye sigh so oft?"
"For that thine eyes do waken memory, lady."
"Of a woman?"
"Aye--of a woman."
"And thou dost--love her, messire?"
"Unto my dole, lady."
"Ah, can it be she doth not love thee, messire?"
"Indeed, 'tis most certain!"
"Hath she then told thee so--of herself?"
"Nay," sighed Beltane, "not in so many words, lady, and yet--"
"And yet," quoth the nun, suddenly erect, "thou must needs run away and leave her--poor sweet wretch--to mourn for thee, belike, and grieve-- aye, and scorn thee too for a faint-heart!"
"Nay, lady, verily I--"
"O, indeed me thinks she must contemn thee in her heart, poor, gentle soul--aye, scorn and despise thee woefully for running away; indeed, 'tis beyond all doubt, messire!"
"Lady," quoth Beltane, flushing in the dark, "you know naught of the matter--"
"Why then shalt thou tell me of it, messire--lo, I am listening." So saying, she settled herself more aptly within his encircling arm.
"First, then," said Beltane, when they had ridden awhile in silence, "she is a duchess, and very proud."
"Yet is she a woman, messire, and thou a man whose arms be very strong!"
"Of what avail strong arms, lady, 'gainst such as she?"
"Why, to carry her withal, messire."
"To--to carry her!" quoth Beltane in amaze.
"In very truth, messire. To lift her up and bear her away with thee--"
"Nay--nay, to--bear her away? O, 'twere thing impossible!"
"Is this duchess so heavy, messire?" sighed the nun, "is she a burden beyond even thy strength, sir knight?"
"Lady, she is the proud Helen, Duchess of Mortain!" quoth Beltane, frowning at the encompassing shadows. Now was the nun hushed awhile, and when at last she spake her voice was low and wondrous gentle.
"And is it indeed the wilful Helen that ye love, messire?"
"Even she, unto my sorrow."
"Thy sorrow? Why then, messire--forget her."
"Ah!" sighed Beltane, "would I might indeed, yet needs must I love her ever."
"Alack, and is it so forsooth," quoth the nun, sighing likewise. "Ah me, my poor, fond son, now doth thy reverend mother pity thee indeed, for thou'rt in direful case to be her lover, methinks."
Now did my Beltane frown the blacker by reason of bitter memory and the pain of his wound. "Her lover, aye!" quoth he, bitterly, "and she hath a many lovers--"
"Lovers!" sighed the nun, "that hath she, the sad, sweet soul! Lovers! --O forsooth, she is sick of a very surfeit of lovers,--so hath she fled from them all!"
"Fled from them?" cried Beltane, his wound forgot, "fled from them-- from Mortain? Nay, how mean you--how--fled?"
"She hath walked, see you, run--ridden--is riding--away from Mortain, from her lords, her counsellors, her varlets, her lovers and what not-- in a word, messire, she is--gone!"
"Gone!" quoth Beltane, breathless and aghast, "gone--aye--but whither?"
"What matter for that so long as her grave counsellors be sufficiently vexed, and her lovers left a-sighing? O me, her counsellors! Bald-pates, see you, and grey-beards, who for their own ends would have her wed Duke Ivo--meek, unfortunate maid!"
"Know you then the Duchess, lady?"
"Aye, forsooth, and my heart doth grieve for her, poor, sweet wretch, for O, 'tis a sad thing to be a duchess with a multitude of suitors a-wooing in season and out, vaunting graces she hath not, and blind to the virtues she doth possess. Ah, messire, I give thee joy that, whatsoever ills may be thine, thou can ne'er be--a duchess!"
"And think you she will not wed with Ivo, lady--think you so in truth?"
"Never, while she is Helen."
"And--loveth--none of her lovers?"
"Why--indeed, messire--I think she doth--"
"Art sure? How know you this?"
"I was her bedfellow betimes, and oft within the night have heard her speak a name unto her pillow, as love-sick maids will."
Now once again was Beltane aware of the throb and sting of his wounded arm, yet 'twas not because of this he sighed so deep and oft.
"Spake she this name--often?" he questioned.
"Very oft, messire. Aye me, how chill the wind blows!"
"Some lord's name, belike?"