"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!"
"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?"
"Why--indeed, messire--I think she doth--"
"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!"
"Nay, 'twas no lord's name, messire. 'Tis very dark amid these trees!"
"Neither, messire. Heigho! methinks I now could sleep awhile." So she sighed deep yet happily, and nestled closer within his shielding arm.
But Beltane, my Innocent, rode stiff in the saddle, staring sad-eyed into the gloom, nor felt, nor heeded the yielding tenderness of the shapely young body he held, but plodded on through the dark, frowning blacker than the night. Now as he rode thus, little by little the pain of his wound grew less, a drowsiness crept upon him, and therewith, a growing faintness. Little by little his head drooped low and lower, and once the arm about the nun slipped its hold, whereat she sighed and stirred sleepily upon his breast. But on he rode, striving grimly against the growing faintness, his feet thrust far within the stirrups, his mailed hand tight clenched upon the reins. So, as dawn broke, he heard the pleasant sound of running water near by, and as the light grew, saw they were come to a grassy glade where ran a small brook--a goodly place, well-hidden and remote. So turned he thitherward, and lifting up heavy eyes, beheld the stars paling to the dawn, for the clouds were all passed away and the wind was gone long since. And, in a while, being come within the boskage of this green dell, feebly and as one a-dream, he checked the great horse that snuffed eagerly toward the murmuring brook, and as one a-dream saw that she who had slumbered on his breast was awake--fresh and sweet as the dawn.