“Now eat, brothers,” cried the bowman, full-mouthed, “eat and spare not, as I do, for to-day I smell the battle from afar:  Ho!  Ho! the noise of captains and the shouting!  Yesterday were we heroes, to-day must we be gods—­yet cautious gods, for, mark me, I have but twelve shafts remaining, and with twelve shafts can but promise ye a poor twelve lives.”

But now came Roger wistful-eyed, and with belt a-swing in his hand.

“Master,” quoth he, “last night did we four rescue twelve.  Now I’m fain to know if for these twelve I may cut twelve notches from my belt, or must we share their lives betwixt us and I count but three?”

“Three?” laughed Giles, “Oho—­out upon thee, Rogerkin!  Our lord here claimeth six, since he the rescue planned, next, I claim three, since but for my goodly shooting ye all had died, then hath Walkyn two, since he saved thee from the fishes, which leaveth thee—­one. Quod erat demonstrandum!”

But now, seeing Roger’s downcast look, Giles snatched the belt and gave it unto Beltane, who forthwith cut there-from twelve notches.  And, in a while, having made an end of eating, Beltane rose and looked round upon the three.

“Good comrades all,” quoth he, “well do I know ye to be staunch and trusty; yet to-day am I minded to speak with him men call Pertolepe the Red, lest he shed innocent blood for that we slew his foresters—­”

“Twenty lusty fellows!” nodded Giles, with a morsel of venison on his dagger point.

“Nay, there one escaped!” quoth Roger.

“Yet he sore wounded!” said Walkyn.

“Ha!  Sir Pertolepe is a terrible lord!” quoth Giles, eyeing the morsel of venison somewhat askance. “’Twill be a desperate adventure, methinks—­and we but four.”

“Yet each and all—­gods!” quoth Walkyn, reaching for his axe.

“Aye,” nodded Giles, frowning at the piece of venison, “yet are we but four gods.”

“Not so,” answered Beltane, “for in this thing shall we be but one.  Go you three to Bourne, for I am minded to try this adventure alone.”

“Alone, master!” cried Black Roger, starting to his feet.

“Alone!” growled Walkyn, clutching his axe.

“An death must come, better one should die than four,” said Beltane, “howbeit I am minded to seek out Pertolepe this day.”

“Then do I come also, master, since thy man am I.”

“I, too,” nodded Walkyn, “come death and welcome, so I but stand face to face with Pertolepe.”

“Alack!” sighed Giles, “so needs must I come also, since I have twelve shafts yet unsped,” and he swallowed the morsel of venison with mighty relish and gusto.

Then laughed Beltane for very gladness, and he looked on each with kindling eye.

“Good friends,” quoth he, “as ye say, so let it be, and may God’s hand be over us this day.”

Now, as he spake with eyes uplift to heaven, he espied a faint, blue mist far away above the soft-stirring tree tops—­a distant haze, that rose lazily into the balmy air, thickening ever as he watched.