"Ha--then I'll never drink it!" quoth Sir Benedict, settling his shoulder against Beltane and frowning at his line. "Am I a babe, forsooth, to be dosed to slumber? Ha, by the foul fiend his black dam, ne'er will I drink it, lad!"
"Then will she smile on thee, sad-eyed, and set it to thy lip, and woo thee soft-voiced, so shalt thou swallow it every drop--"
"Not so--dear blood of all the saints! Must I be mewed up within an accursed bed on such a day and all by reason of a small axe-stroke? Malediction, no!"
"She is wondrous gentle with the sick, Benedict--"
"She is a very woman, Beltane, and therefore gentle, a noble lady sweet of soul and body! To die for such were joyful privilege, methinks, aye, verily!" and Sir Benedict, forgetful of his line, drooped his head and sighed.
"And thou didst know her well--long years agone, Benedict?"
"Aye, long--years--agone!"
"Very well, Benedict?"
"Very well."
"She was 'Yolande' then, Benedict?"
"Aye," quoth Sir Benedict, lifting his head with a start and looking at Beltane askance, "and to-day she is the lady Abbess Veronica!"
"That shall surely dose thee again and--"
"Ha! bones and body o' me, not so! For here sit I, and here angle I, fish or no fish, thunder o' God, yes! Aye, verily, here will I sit till I have caught me a fish, or weary and go o' my own free will--by Beelzebub I vow, by Bel and the Dragon I swear it! And furthermore--"
Sir Benedict paused, tilted his head and glancing up, beheld the lady Abbess within a yard of them. Gracious she stood in her long white habit and shook her stately head in grave rebuke, but beholding his abashed look and how the rod sagged in his loosened hold, her lips parted of a sudden and her teeth gleamed in a smile wondrous young and pleasant to see.
"O Benedict!" said she, "O child most disobedient! O sir knight! Is this thy chivalry, noble lord--to steal away for that a poor soul must needs sleep, being, alas! so very mortal?"
"Forsooth and indeed, dear my lady," quoth Sir Benedict, fumbling with his angle, "the sun did woo me forth--and the wind, see you--the wind--"
"Nay, I see it not, my lord, but I did hear something of thy fearsome, great oaths as I came hither."
"Oaths, lady?" said Sir Benedict, fingering his chin, "Forsooth and did I so? Mayhap 'twas by reason that the fish, see you, the pestilent fish--Ha! Saint Benedict! I have a bite!" Up sprang Sir Benedict, quite forgetting his wounded arm, capering lightly to and fro, now in the water, now out, with prodigious stir and splash and swearing oaths galore, until, his pallid cheek flushed and bright eyes a-dance, he had won the fish into the shallows and thence landed it right skilfully, where it thrashed and leapt, flashing in the sun.