Now when Beltane's mighty hunger was assuaged he sat--his aching head yet ringing with the blow--and stared up at the moon, sad and wistful-eyed as one full of heaviness the while Black Roger standing beside him gazed askance at the archer who sat near by whistling softly and busied with certain arrows, cleaning and trimming them ere he set them back in his quiver. And presently Black Roger spake softly, low-stooping to Beltane's ear: "Lord, we have saved the life of yon prating archer-fellow, and behold my belt lacketh for one notch, which is well. So come, let us go our ways, thou and I, for I love not your talkers, and this fellow hath overmuch to say."
But now, ere Beltane could make reply, came the hairy man--but behold his rags had given place to fair garments of tanned leather (albeit something small) together with steel cap and shirt of ringed mail, and, about his middle, a broad belt where swung a heavy sword; being come to Beltane he paused leaning upon his axe, and gazed upon him fierce-eyed: "Messire," said he, "who ye are I know not, what ye are I care not, for art quick of foot and mighty of arm, and when ye fight, cry a point of war, a battle-shout I knew aforetime ere they enslaved and made of me a serf--and thus it is I would follow thee."
Quoth Beltane, his aching head upon his hand: "Whither?"
"To death if needs be, for a man must die soon or late, yet die but once whether it be by the steel, or flame, or rope. So what matter the way of it, if I may stand with this my axe face to face with Gilles of Brandonmere, or Red Pertolepe of Garthlaxton Keep: 'twas for this I followed his foresters."
"Who and whence are you?"
"Walkyn o' the Dene they call me hereabouts--though I had another name once--but 'twas long ago, when I marched, a lad, 'neath the banner of Beltane the Strong!"
"What talk be this?" grunted Black Roger, threatening of mien, "my lord and I be under a vow and must begone, and want no runaway serf crawling at our heels!"
"Ha!" quoth Walkyn, "spake I to thee, hangman? Forsooth, well do I know thee, Roger the Black: come ye into the glade yonder, so will I split thy black poll for thee--thou surly dog!"
Forth leapt Black Roger's sword, back swung Walkyn's glittering axe, but Beltane was between, and, as they stood thus came Giles o' the Bow: "Oho!" he laughed, "must ye be at it yet? Have we not together slain of Sir Pertolepe's foresters a round score?--"