A shock of hard-smitten steel--a whirl and flurry of blows--a shout of triumph, and, reeling in his saddle, dazed and sick, Beltane found himself alone, fronting a bristling line of feutred lances; he heard Roger shout to him wild and fearful, heard Walkyn roar at him--felt a sudden shock, and was down, unhelmed, and pinned beneath his stricken charger. Half a-swoon he lay thus, seeing dimly the line of on-rushing lance-points, while on his failing senses a fierce cry smote: "'Tis Beltane--the Outlaw! Slay him! Slay him!"
But now of a sudden and as one that dreamed, he beheld a tender face above him with sad-sweet eyes and lips that bent to kiss his brow, felt soft arms about him--tender arms that drew his weary head upon a gentle bosom to hide and pillow it there; felt that enfolding embrace tighten and tighten in sudden shuddering spasm, as, sighing, the lady Abbess's white-clad arms fell away and her proud head sank beside his in the dust.
And now was a rush and roar of fierce voices as over them sprang Roger and Giles with Ulf and Eric, and, amid the eddying dust, axe and sword swung and smote, while came hands strong yet tender, that bare Beltane into the city.
Now beyond the gate of the city was a well and beside the well they laid Beltane and bathed him with the sweet cool water, until at length the mist vanished from his sight and thus he beheld the White Abbess who lay upon a pile of cloaks hard by. And beholding the deadly pallor of lip and cheek, the awful stains that spotted her white robe and the fading light in those sad-sweet eyes, Beltane cried aloud--a great and bitter cry, and fell before her on his knees.
"Mother!" he groaned, "O my mother!"
"Dear my Beltane," she whispered faintly, striving to kiss his hand, "death is none so--painful, so grieve not thine heart for me, sweet son. And how may a mother--die better than for her own--beloved son? Beltane, if God--O if God in His infinite mercy--shall think me worthy --to be--one of His holy angels, then will I be ever near thee when thy way proveth dark--to comfort thee--to aid thee. O dear my son--I sought thee so long--so long--'tis a little hard to leave thee--so soon. But--God's will--fare thee well, I die--aye--this is death, methinks. Beltane, tell thy father that I--O--dear my--my Beltane--"
So died the gracious lady Abbess that had been the proud Yolande, Duchess of Pentavalon, wept and bemoaned by full many who had known her tender care; and, in due season, she was laid to rest within the fair Minster of Belsaye. And thereafter, Beltane took to his bed and abode there many days because of his wounds and by reason of his so great sorrow and heart-break.