Which Speaketh for Itself

"Giles!" he cried, "O Giles--rouse ye, man!"

"How, lord--art awake so early?" questioned Giles, looking up innocent of eye.

"Was it not for this thou didst sing, rogue Giles? Go now, bid Roger have three horses saddled, for within the hour we ride hence."

"To Mortain, lord?" questioned Giles eagerly.

"Aye, Giles, to Mortain--north to Blaen; where else should we ride to-day?"

So saying, Beltane turned back into his sumptuous chamber and fell to donning, not his habiliments of state, but those well-worn garments, all frayed by his heavy mail. Swift dressed he and almost stealthily, oft pausing to glance into the empty garden below, and oft staying to listen to some sound within the massy building. And thus it was he started to hear a soft knocking at the door, and turning, beheld Sir Benedict.

"Forsooth, art up betimes, my lord Duke," quoth he, bright eyes a-twinkle, "and verily I do commend this so great zeal in thee since there be many and divers matters do need thy ducal attention--matters of state and moment--"

"Matters of state?" saith Beltane, something troubled.

"There be many noble and illustrious lords come in to pay thee homage and swear to thee divers fealty oaths--"

"Then must they wait, Benedict."

"Wait, my lord--men so illustrious! Then this day a deputation waiteth on thee, merchants and what not--"

"These must wait also, Benedict--" saith Beltane, his trouble growing.

"Moreover there is high festival at the minster with much chanting and glorification in thy behalf--and 'tis intended to make for thee a triumphal pageant--fair maidens to strow flowers beneath thy horse's feet, musicians to pleasure thee with pipe and tabor--and--"