"Messire!" Beltane started from his reverie. "Art cold, messire?"
"Cold!" stammered Beltane, "cold? Indeed no, lady."
"Yet dost thou tremble!"
"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!"