“Now shall I live henceforth in thee, my son, glorying in thy deeds hereafter.  And if thou must needs—­bleed, then shall my heart bleed with thee, or if thou meet with death, my Beltane, then shall this heart of mine die with thee.”

Thus speaking, the hermit drew the sword from Beltane’s girdle and held the great blade towards heaven.

“Behold, my son,” said he, “the motto of our house, ‘I will arise!’ So now shalt thou arise indeed that thy destiny may be fulfilled.  Take hold upon thy manhood, my well-beloved, get thee to woeful Pentavalon and, beholding its sorrows, seek how they may be assuaged.  Now my Beltane, all is said—­when wilt thou leave thy father?”

Quoth Beltane, gathering his cloak about him: 

“An so it be thy wish, my father, then will I go this hour.”

Then Ambrose brought Beltane into his humble dwelling where was a coffer wrought by his own skilful fingers; and from this coffer he drew forth a suit of triple mail, wondrously fashioned, beholding the which, Beltane’s eyes glistened because of the excellence of its craftsmanship.

“Behold!” quoth the hermit, “’tis an armour worthy of a king, light is it, yet marvellous strong, and hath been well tried in many a desperate affray.  ’Tis twenty years since these limbs bore it, yet see—­I have kept it bright from rust lest, peradventure, Pentavalon should need thee to raise again the battle cry of thy house and lead her men to war.  And, alas dear son, that day is now!  Pentavalon calls to thee from out the gloom of dungeon, from the anguish of flame, and rack, and gibbet—­from blood-soaked hearth and shameful grave she calls thee—­ so, my Beltane, come and let me arm thee.”

And there, within his little hut, the hermit Ambrose, Duke of Pentavalon that was, girt the armour upon Beltane the mighty, Duke of Pentavalon to be, if so God willed; first the gambeson of stuffed and quilted leather, and, thereafter, coifed hauberk and chausses, with wide sword-belt clamped with broad plates of silver and studs of gold, until my Beltane stood up armed in shining mail from head to foot.  Then brought Ambrose a wallet, wherein were six gold pieces, and put it in his hand, saying: 

“These have I kept against this day, my Beltane.  Take them to aid thee on thy journey, for the county of Bourne lieth far to the south.”

“Do I then journey to Bourne, my father?”

“Aye, to Sir Benedict, who yet doth hold the great keep of Thrasfordham.  Many sieges hath he withstood, and daily men flee to him —­stricken men, runaway serfs, and outlaws from the green, all such masterless men as lie in fear of their lives.”

Said Beltane, slow and thoughtful: 

“There be many outlaws within the green, wild men and sturdy fighters as I’ve heard.  Hath Sir Benedict many men, my father?”

“Alas! a pitiful few, and Black Ivo can muster bows and lances by the ten thousand—­”