“Wait!” he commanded, “wait you here!” and forthwith turned and ran, and so running, came again at last to that obscure glade whence now came a sound of groans, mocked, thereafter, by fierce laughter.  Now, bursting from the green, Beltane beheld Sir Pertolepe writhing in his bonds with Walkyn’s fierce fingers twined in his red hair, and Walkyn’s busy dagger at his upturned brow, where was a great, gory wound, a hideous cruciform blotch whence pulsed the blood that covered his writhen face like a scarlet vizard.

“Ah!” cried Beltane, “what hast thou done?”

Back fell Walkyn, fierce-eyed and grim yet with teeth agleam through the hair of his beard.

“Lord,” quoth he, “this man hath slain wife, and child and brother, so do I know him thrice a murderer.  Therefore have I set this mark of Cain upon him, that all men henceforth may see and know.  But now, an it be so thy will, take this my dagger and slay me here and now—­yet shall Red Pertolepe bear my mark upon him when I am dead.”

Awhile stood Beltane in frowning thought, then pointed to the green.

“Go,” said he, “the others wait thee!”

So Walkyn, obeying, turned and plunged into the green, while Beltane followed after, slow and heavy-footed.  But now, even as he went, slow and ever slower, he lifted heavy head and turned about, for above the leafy stirrings rose the mournful lilting of a pipe, clear and very sweet, that drew nearer and louder until it was, of a sudden, drowned in a cry hoarse and woeful.  Then Beltane, hasting back soft-treading, stood to peer through the leaves, and presently, his cock’s-comb flaunting, his silver bells a-jingle, there stepped a mountebank into the clearing—­that same jester with whom Beltane had talked aforetime.

“Beda!” cried Sir Pertolepe faintly, his bloody face uplifted, “and is it forsooth, thou, Beda?  Come, free me of my bonds.  Ha! why stay ye, I am Pertolepe—­thy lord—­know you me not, Beda?”

“Aye, full well I know thee, lord Pertolepe, thou art he who had me driven forth with blows and bitter stripes—­thou art he who slew my father for an ill-timed jest—­oho! well do I know thee, my lord Pertolepe.”  So saying, Beda the Jester set his pipe within his girdle, and, drawing his dagger, began to creep upon Sir Pertolepe, who shook the dripping blood from his eyes to watch him as he came.  Quote he: 

“Art a good fool, Beda, aye, a good fool.  And for thy father, ’twas the wine, Beda—­the wine, not I—­come, free me of these my bonds—­I loved thy father, e’en as I loved thee.”

“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.