Of The Horrors of Garthlaxton Keep, And How a Devil Entered Into Beltane

Six days came and went, and during all this time Beltane spake word to no man. Every evening came Sir Pertolepe leaning on the arm of Raoul the esquire, to view his prisoner with greedy eyes and ply him with jovial talk whiles Beltane would lie frowning up at the mighty roof-beams, or sit, elbows on knee, his fingers clenched upon that lock of hair that gleamed so strangely white amid the yellow.

Now upon the seventh evening as he sat thus, came Sir Pertolepe according to his wont, but to-night he leaned upon the shoulder of Beda the Jester, whose motley flared 'gainst rugged wall and dingy flagstone and whose bells rang loud and merry by contrast with the gloom.

Quoth Sir Pertolepe, seated upon the bench and smiling upon Beltane's grim figure: "He groweth fat to the killing, seest thou, my Beda, a young man and hearty, very hale and strong--and therefore meet for death. So strong a man should be long time a-dying--an death be coaxed and managed well. And Tristan is more cunning and hath more love for his craft than ever had Black Roger. With care, Beda--I say with care, messire Beltane should die from dawn to sundown."

"Alack!" sighed the jester, "death shall take him over soon, as thou dost say--and there's the pity on't!"

"Soon, Fool--soon? Now out upon thee for a fool ingrain--"

"Forsooth, sweet lord, fool am I--mark these bells! Yet thou art a greater!"