"Go get thee to thy rest, Roger. As for me, I would fain think."
"But wherefore here?"
"For that I am so minded."
"So be it, master. God send thy thoughts be fair." So saying, Roger turned where, on the further side of the Hollow, lay those caves 'neath the rocky bank wherein the outlaws had been wont to sleep. But, of a sudden, Beltane heard a hoarse scream, a gasp of terror, and Roger was back beside him, his naked broad-sword all a-shake in his trembling hand, his eyes wide and rolling.
"Master--O master!" he whimpered, "ghosts! 'neath the tree--Tostig-- the Dead Hand!"
"Nay, what folly is here, Roger?"
"Lord, 'twas the Dead Hand--touched me--on the brow--in the shadow yonder! Aye--on the brow--'neath the tree! O master, dead men are we, 'tis Tostig come to drag us back to hell with him!" And crouching on his knees, Roger fell to desperate prayers.
Then Beltane turned whither Roger's shaking finger had pointed, and strode beneath the great tree. And peering up through the dark, he presently espied a shadowy thing that moved amid a gloom of leaves and branches; and, beholding what it was, he drew sword and smote high above his head.
Something thudded heavily upon the grass and lay there, mute and rigid, while Beltane, leaning upon his sword, stared down at that fell shape, and breathing the noxious reek of it, was seized of trembling horror; nevertheless he stooped, and reaching out a hand of loathing in the dimness, found the cord whereby it had swung and dragged the rigid, weighty thing out into the radiance of the moon until he could see a pallid face twisted and distorted by sharp and cruel death. Now in this moment Roger sware a fierce, great oath, and forthwith kicked those stiffened limbs.
"Ha!" cried he, "methought 'twas Tostig his ghost come for to drag us down into yon accursed pool--and 'tis naught but the traitor-rogue Gurth!"
"And dead, Roger!"
"Forsooth, he's dead enough, master--faugh!"
"And it availeth nothing to kick a dead man, Roger."
"Yet was he an arrant knave, master."
"And hath paid for his knavery, methinks!"
"A very rogue! a traitor! a rogue of rogues, master!"
"Then hath he the more need of our prayers, Roger."
"Prayers! How, lord, would'st pray for--this?"
"Nay, Roger, but thou shalt, since thou art potent in prayer these days." So saying, Beltane knelt upon the sward and folded reverent hands; whereupon Roger, somewhat abashed, having set his sword upright in the ling as was his custom, presently knelt likewise, and clearing his throat, spake aloud in this fashion: "Holy Saint Cuthbert, thou see'st here all that is left of one that in life was a filthy, lewd, and traitorous knave, insomuch that he hath, methinks, died of roguery. Now, most blessed saint, do thy best for the knavish soul of him, intercede on his behalf that he may suffer no more than he should. And this is the prayer of me, Black Roger, that has been a vile sinner as I have told thee, though traitor to no man, I praise God. But, most blessed and right potent saint, while I am at the ears of thee, fain would I crave thy aid on matter of vasty weight and import. To wit, good saint: let now Sir Fidelis, who, as ye well know, doth hide womanly beauties in ungentle steel--let now this brave and noble lady muster forthwith all the powers within her Duchy of Mortain --every lusty fellow, good saint--and hither march them to my master's aid. Let her smite and utterly confound Black Ivo, who (as oft I've told thee--moreover thine eyes are sharp), is but a rogue high-born, fitter for gallows than ducal crown, even as this most unsavoury Gurth was a rogue low-born. So when she hath saved my master despite himself, sweet saint, then do thou join them heart and body, give them joy abounding and happiness enduring, nor forget them in the matter of comely children. So bring to woeful Pentavalon and to us all and every, peace at last and prosperity--and to sorrowful Roger a belt wherein be no accursed notches and a soul made clean. In nomen Dominum, Amen!"