is singing on every village green—­happiness is in the very air, for ’tis Pentavalon’s Beltane, and Beltane is a sweet season; so doth this poor second rogue find him recompense.  Verily art well named, lord Beltane, since in thee Pentavalon’s winter is passed away and spring is come—­O happy season of Beltane, O season of new beginnings and new hopes!  So, my lord Beltane, may it ever be Beltane with thee, may it be sweet spring ever within thy noble heart.  God keep thee and farewell.”

So saying the Pardoner turned about, and plunging into the dense green, was gone.

“A pestilent wordy fellow, lord,” quoth Giles, “one of your windy talkers that talketh that no other talker may talk—­now give me a good listener, say I.”

“And yet,” said Beltane, swinging to saddle, “spake he truly I wonder?  Had Ivo been a little sooner we had not been here, methinks!”

On they rode, through sun and shadow, knee and knee, beneath leafy arches and along green glades, talking and laughing together or plunged in happy thought.

Quoth Beltane of a sudden: 

“Roger, hast heard how Giles waxeth in fortune these days?”

“And methinks no man is more worthy, master.  Giles is for sure a man of parts.”

“Aye—­more especially of tongue, Roger.”

“As when he did curse the folk of Belsaye out o’ their fears, master.  Moreover he is a notable archer and—­”

“Art not envious, then, Roger?”

“Not I, master!”

“What would’st that I give unto thee?”

“Thy love, master.”

“’Tis thine already, my faithful Roger.”

“And therewithal am I content, master.”

“Seek ye nought beside?”

“Lord, what is there?  Moreover I am not learned like Giles, nor ready of tongue, nor—­”

“Art wondrous skilled in wood-lore, my Rogerkin!” quoth Giles.  “Forsooth, lord, there is no man knoweth more of forestry than my good comrade Roger!”

“So will I make of him my chiefest huntsman, Giles—­”

“Master—­O master!” gasped Roger.

“And set thee over all my foresters of Pentavalon, Roger.”

“Why master, I—­forsooth I do love the greenwood—­but lord, I am only Roger, and—­and how may I thank thee—­”

“Come!” cried Beltane, and spurred to a gallop.

Thus rode they through the leafy by-ways, avoiding town and village; yet oft from afar they heard the joyous throb of bells upon the air, or the sound of merry voices and happy laughter from village commons where folk rejoiced together that Ivo’s iron yoke was lifted from them at last.  But Beltane kept ever to the woods and by-ways, lest, being recognised, he should be stayed longer from her of whom he dreamed, bethinking him ever of the deep, shy passion of her eyes, the soft tones of her voice, the clinging warmth of her caress, and all the sweet, warm beauty of her.  Betimes they crossed the marches into Mortain, but it was late evening ere they saw at last the sleepy manor of Blaen, its white walls and steepy roofs dominated by its one square watch-tower, above which a standard, stirring lazily in the gentle air, discovered the red lion of Pentavalon.