“Fly! fly!  Pertolepe is upon us! ’tis the Red Pertolepe!”

But Beltane, riding warily amid the gloom, came to that place where he had left the nun, yet found her not, and immediately was seized of a great dread.  But as he stared wildly about him, he presently heard a muffled cry, and spurring thitherwards, beheld two dim figures that swayed to and fro in a fierce grapple.  Riding close, Beltane saw the glint of mail, raised his sword for the blow, felt a shock—­a searing smart, and knew himself wounded; but now she was at his stirrup, and stooping, he swung her up to the withers of his horse, and wheeling short about, spurred to a gallop; yet, as he rode, above the rush of wind and thud of hoofs, he heard a cry, hoarse and dolorous.  On galloped Beltane all unheeding, until he came ’neath the leafy arches of the friendly woods, within whose gloom needs must he ride at a hand’s pace.  Thus, as they went, they could hear the uproar behind—­a confused din that waxed and waned upon the wind.

But Beltane, riding slow and cautious within the green, heeded this not at all, nor the throb of his wounded arm, nor aught under heaven save the pressure of this slender body that lay so still, so warm and soft within his arm; and as he went, he began to wish for the moon that he might see her face.

Blue eyes, long and heavy-lashed!  Surely blue eyes were fairest in a woman?  And then the voice of her, liquid and soft like the call of merle or mavis.  And she was a nun!  How white and slim her hands, yet strong and resolute, as when she grasped the dagger ’gainst Sir Gilles; aye—­resolute hands, like the spirit within her soft and shapely body.  And then again—­her lips; red and full, up-curving to sweet, slow smile, yet withal tinged with subtle mockery.  With such eyes and such lips she might—­aye, but she was a nun—­a nun, forsooth!

“Messire!” Beltane started from his reverie.  “Art cold, messire?”

“Cold!” stammered Beltane, “cold?  Indeed no, lady.”

“Yet dost thou tremble!”

“Nathless, I am not cold, lady.”

“Then wherefore tremble?”

“Nay, I—­I know not.  In sooth, do I so, lady?”

“Verily, sir, and therewith sigh, frequent and O, most dolorous to hear!”

Now at this, my Beltane finding naught to say, straightway sighed again; and thus they rode awhile, speaking nothing.

“Think you we are safe, messire?” she questioned him at last.

“Tis so I pray, lady.”

“Thou hast done right valiantly to-night on my behalf,” says she.  “How came you in at the window?”

“By means of a tree, lady.”

“Art very strong, messire, and valiant beyond thought.  Thou hast this night, with thy strong hand, lifted me up from shameful death:  so, by right, should my life be thine henceforth.”  Herewith she sighed, leaning closer upon his breast, and Beltane’s desire to see her face grew amain.