And verily Roger stepped forth of the underwood that clothed the steep, dragging a thing of rags and tatters, a wretched creature, bent and wrinkled, that mopped and mowed with toothless chaps and clutched a misshapen bundle in yellow, talon-like fingers, and these yellow fingers were splotched horribly with dark stains even as were the rags that covered her.  She whined and whimpered querulously, mouthing inarticulate plaints and prayers as Roger haled her along, with Cnut and Walkyn, fierce and scowling, behind.  Having brought her to Beltane, Roger loosed her, and wrenching away her bundle, opened it, and lo! a yellow-gleaming hoard of golden neck-chains, of rings and armlets, of golden spurs and belt-buckles, the which he incontinent scattered at Beltane’s feet; whereon the gibbering creature screamed in high-pitched, cracked and ancient voice, and, screeching, threw herself upon the gold and fell to scrabbling among the dust with her gnarled and bony fingers; and ever as she raked and raked, she screeched harsh and high—­a hateful noise that ended, of a sudden, in a wheezing sob, and sinking down, she lay outstretched and silent, her wrinkled face in the dust and a cloth-yard shaft transfixing her yellow throat.

So swift had death been dealt that all men fell back a pace and were yet staring down at this awful dead thing when forth from the brush an archer crawled painfully, his bow yet in his hand, and so lay, panting loud and hoarse.

“Ha!” cried Cnut, “’tis lusty Siward of our archers!  How now, Siward?”

“I’m sped, Cnut!” groaned Siward, “but yon hag lieth dead, so am I—­ content.  I’ve watched her slay John that was my comrade, you’ll mind—­ for his armlet.  And—­good Sir Hugh she stabbed,—­yonder he lieth—­him she slew for—­spurs and chain.  When I fell I—­dropped my bow—­in the brush, yonder—­I have been two hours creeping—­a dozen yards to—­reach my bow but—­I got it at last—­Aha!” And Siward, feebly pointing to the ancient, dead woman, strove to laugh and so—­died.

Then Beltane turned, and coming beside the wounded youth spake him tender and compassionate.

“Young sir, we must hence, but first can I do aught forthee?”

“O messire, an I might—­come to the river—­water!”

Saying no word, Beltane stooped and lifting the young knight very carefully, bore him down toward the ford.

“Messire,” quoth the young knight, stifling his groans, “art very strong and wondrous gentle withal!” Presently Beltane brought him beside the river, and while the youth drank, laid bare an ugly wound above the knee and bathed it with his hand, and, thereafter, tearing a strip from his ragged cloak, he bound it tight above the hurt, (even as he had seen Sir Fidelis do) and thus stayed the bleeding.  Now while this was a-doing, the young knight must needs talk.