"Yet is my father dead, lord--and I am outcast!" said Beda, smiling and fingering his dagger.
"So then, will ye slay me, Beda--wilt murder thy lord? Why then, strike, fool, strike--here, i' the throat, and let thy steel be hard-driven. Come!"
Then Sir Pertolepe feebly raised his bloody head, proffering his throat to the steel and so stood faint in his bonds, yet watching the jester calm-eyed. Slowly, slowly the dagger was lifted for the stroke while Sir Pertolepe watched the glittering steel patient and unflinching; then, swift and sudden the dagger flashed and fell, and Sir Pertolepe staggered free, and so stood swaying. Then, looking down upon his severed bonds, he laughed hoarsely.
"How, 'twas but a jest, then, my Beda?" he whispered. "A jest--ha! and methinks, forsooth, the best wilt ever make!"
So saying, Sir Pertolepe stumbled forward a pace, groping before him like a blind man, then, groaning, fell, and lay a'swoon, his bloody face hidden in the grass.
And turning away, Beltane left him lying there with Beda the Jester kneeling above him.