"Why first, sweet, tall brother, first will I teach them to draw a bow, pluck a string, and speed a shaft as never townsman drew, plucked or sped--in fine, I will teach them to shoot: and, thereafter, devoutly pray the good Saint Giles (that is my patron saint) to send us Black Ivo and his dogs to shoot at!"
"So be it. Choose ye now each ten men of your companies that shall abide here with ye what time I am away--yet first mark this: In your hands do I leave this fair city, to your care I give the lives and well-being of all these men and women and children. Come now, lay here your hands upon my sword and swear me to maintain Belsaye to the last man 'gainst siege or storm, so long as life be in you!"
Now when they had sworn, Beltane turned him to the Reeve: "Good sir," quoth he, "I pray you loose now the captives from their chains. Let your prisoners be secured, and for the rest, let us now eat and drink lest we famish."
Thus in a while, Sir Robert of Hurstmanswyke, dazed and bewildered, and his four esquires, together with his thirty men-at-arms, stripped of armour and weapons, were led away and lodged secure beneath the keep.
Now it chanced that as Beltane stood apart with head a-droop as one in thought, there came to him Sir Fidelis and touched him with gentle hand.
"My lord Beltane," said he softly, "of what think you?"
"Of Pentavalon, and how soonest her sorrows may be done away."
"Lovest thou Pentavalon indeed, messire?"
"Aye, truly, Fidelis."
"Then wherefore let her suffer longer?"
"Suffer? Aye, there it is--but how may I bring her woes to sudden end? I am too weak, her oppressors many, and my men but few--"
"Few?" quoth Sir Fidelis, speaking with head low-stooped. "Few, messire? Not so. Ten thousand lances might follow thee to-morrow an thou but spake the word--"
"Nay," sighed Beltane, "mock me not, good Fidelis, thou dost know me a lonely man and friendless--to whom should I speak?"
"To one that loveth thee now as ever, to one that yearneth for thee with heart nigh to breaking--to Helen--"
"Ah!" quoth Beltane, slow and bitter, "speak word to Helen the Beautiful--the Wilful--the Wanton? No, a thousand times! Rather would I perish, I and all my hopes, than seek aid of such as she--"
"Lovest thou Pentavalon indeed, messire? Nay, methinks better far thou dost love thy cold and cruel pride--so must Pentavalon endure her grievous wrongs, and so do I pity her, but--most of all--I pity thee, messire!"