"Messire," she murmured, "pray now, wherefore do ye sigh so oft?"
"For that thine eyes do waken memory, lady."
"Ah, can it be she doth not love thee, messire?"
"Hath she then told thee so--of herself?"
"Nay," sighed Beltane, "not in so many words, lady, and yet--"
"And yet," quoth the nun, suddenly erect, "thou must needs run away and leave her--poor sweet wretch--to mourn for thee, belike, and grieve-- aye, and scorn thee too for a faint-heart!"
"O, indeed me thinks she must contemn thee in her heart, poor, gentle soul--aye, scorn and despise thee woefully for running away; indeed, 'tis beyond all doubt, messire!"
"Lady," quoth Beltane, flushing in the dark, "you know naught of the matter--"
"Why then shalt thou tell me of it, messire--lo, I am listening." So saying, she settled herself more aptly within his encircling arm.
"First, then," said Beltane, when they had ridden awhile in silence, "she is a duchess, and very proud."
"Yet is she a woman, messire, and thou a man whose arms be very strong!"
"Of what avail strong arms, lady, 'gainst such as she?"
"To--to carry her!" quoth Beltane in amaze.
"In very truth, messire. To lift her up and bear her away with thee--"
"Nay--nay, to--bear her away? O, 'twere thing impossible!"
"Is this duchess so heavy, messire?" sighed the nun, "is she a burden beyond even thy strength, sir knight?"
"Lady, she is the proud Helen, Duchess of Mortain!" quoth Beltane, frowning at the encompassing shadows. Now was the nun hushed awhile, and when at last she spake her voice was low and wondrous gentle.
"And is it indeed the wilful Helen that ye love, messire?"
"Thy sorrow? Why then, messire--forget her."
"Ah!" sighed Beltane, "would I might indeed, yet needs must I love her ever."
"Alack, and is it so forsooth," quoth the nun, sighing likewise. "Ah me, my poor, fond son, now doth thy reverend mother pity thee indeed, for thou'rt in direful case to be her lover, methinks."
Now did my Beltane frown the blacker by reason of bitter memory and the pain of his wound. "Her lover, aye!" quoth he, bitterly, "and she hath a many lovers--"
"Lovers!" sighed the nun, "that hath she, the sad, sweet soul! Lovers! --O forsooth, she is sick of a very surfeit of lovers,--so hath she fled from them all!"