Part 58 (1/2)

”So henceforth am I content--and yet--”

”Well, my lord?”

”To-morrow, perchance, shall see the end of this our solitude and close comrades.h.i.+p--to-morrow we should reach Hundleby Fen. So, Fidelis, promise me, if thou, at any time hereafter should see me harsh, or proud, or selfish--do thou mind me of these days of our love and companions.h.i.+p. Wilt promise me?”

”Aye, lord!” spake Sir Fidelis, low-bending to his task; and thereafter sighed, and bowed him lower yet.

”Wherefore dost thou sigh?”

”For that I feel as if--ah, Beltane!--as if this night should be the end of our love and comrades.h.i.+p!”

”Nought but death shall do this, methinks.”

”Why then,” said Fidelis as he rose, ”an it must be, fain would I have death.”

But when Beltane would have questioned him further he smiled sad and wistful and went forth to the fire. Up rose the moon, a thing of glory filling the warm, stilly night with a soft and radiant splendour--a tender light, fraught with a subtle magic, whereby all things, rock and tree and leaping brook, found a new and added beauty.

And in some while comes Sir Fidelis to set out their viands, neat and orderly, as was ever his custom, and thereafter must needs chide Beltane, soft-voiced, for his lack of hunger, and cut dainty morsels, wooing him thereby to eat.

”Fidelis,” says Beltane, ”on so fair a night as this, methinks, the old fables and romances might well be true that tell of elves that dance on moony nights, and of shapely nymphs and lovely dryads that are the spirits of the trees. Aye, in the magic of so fair a night as this aught might happen--miracles and wonders.”

”Save one thing, dear my lord.”

”As what, my Fidelis?”

”That thou should'st dream Helen pure and faithful and worthy to thy love--that, doubting thine own senses, thou should'st yearn and sigh to hold her once again, heart on heart--”

”Ah, Fidelis,” quoth Beltane, sighing deep, ”why wilt thou awake a sleeping sorrow? My love was dead long since, meseemeth, and buried in mine heart. O Fidelis, mine eyes, mine ears, my every sense do tell me she is false--so is an end of love for me henceforth.”

”Dear my lord,” spake Fidelis, and his voice thrilled strangely in Beltane's ears--”O, Beltane, my lord, could'st thou but doubt thyself a little--could'st thou, doubting thine own senses for love's sake, believe her now true--true as thou would'st have her, then Love indeed might work for thee a miracle this night and thou be loved as man of G.o.d-like faith.”

”Nay, sweet Fidelis, I am but a man, apt to evil betimes and betimes seeking good. Howbeit, now am I a weary man that fain would sleep. Come then, lay you down here beside me where I may touch thee an I awake i'

the night.” And, lying down, Beltane beckoned Fidelis beside him.

So in a while the young knight came and did as Beltane bade, and side by side they lay within the shelter of the little cave; and in the dark, Beltane set his mighty arm about him and thereafter spake, wondering:

”Art not cold, Fidelis?”

”Nay, lord.”

”Then why dost tremble?”

”Indeed I know not--mayhap I grieved that--the age of miracles--is pa.s.sed away.”

Now at this Beltane wondered the more and would fain have questioned him, but in that moment sighed, and fell to slumber. But in his sleep he dreamed that Fidelis was beset by foes and cried to him for aid, whereon he would have hasted to his deliverance yet could not for that unseen hands held him fast; then strove he amain against these griping hands, and so awaked in sudden terror and lay there trembling in the dark; and in the dark he reached out cautious hand further and further and so found himself alone--for the young knight was gone.

Now being very sick with the fever of his wound, dread came upon him, fear seized and shook him, and, trembling in the dark he called aloud ”Fidelis! Fidelis!” But no sound heard he save the ripple of the brook near by. Groaning, he arose and, limping forth of the cave stood in the glory of the moon, voiceless now by reason of his ever-growing terror; conscious only of his pa.s.sionate desire to find again the youth whose gentle voice had cheered him often in the dark, whose high courage and tender care had never failed. So, leaning upon his great sword, Beltane limped through light and shadow, heedless of direction, until he was stayed by the waters of the pool.

A faint splash, a rippling of the sleepy waters, and, out into the moonlight came one that swam the pool with long, easy strokes; one that presently leapt lightly ash.o.r.e and stood there to shake down the unwetted glory of her hair. At first he thought this some enchanted pool and she the G.o.ddess of the place, but even then she turned, and thus at last--he knew. And in that moment also, she beheld him amid the leaves; tall and fair she stood, proud and maidenly, nor moved she, nor spake: only she shook about her loveliness the s.h.i.+ning mantle of her hair. And beholding the reproachful sadness of those clear, virgin eyes, Beltane, abashed by her very beauty, bowed his head, and turning, stumbled away and thus presently finding himself within the cave, threw himself down and clasped his head within fierce hands. Yet, even so, needs must he behold the slim, white beauty of her, the rippling splendour of her hair, and the deep, shy sadness of her eyes, and, because of her beauty he trembled, and because of her falsity he groaned aloud.