iron whom men call Beltane the Smith, fit but to sigh and sigh and
forever sigh, to dream of her and nothing more--so must I go hence,
leaving the sweet silence of the woods for the strife and noise of
cities, learning to share the burdens of my fellows. See you not, my
father, see you not the way of it?" So spake Beltane, hot and
passionate, striding to and fro upon the sward, while Ambrose sat with
bitterness in his heart but with eyes ineffably gentle.

"And is this love of thine so hopeless, my Beltane?"

"Beyond all thought; she is the Duchess Helen of Mortain!"

Now for a while the hermit spake not, sitting chin in hand as one who
halts betwixt two courses.

"'Tis strange," he said at length, "and passing strange! Yet, since
'tis she, and she so much above thee, wherefore would ye leave the
tender twilight of these forests?"

Quoth Beltane, sighing:

"My father, I tell thee these woods be full of love and her. She
looketh at me from the flowers and stealeth to me in their fragrance;
the very brooks do babble of her beauty; each leaf doth find a little
voice to whisper of her, and everywhere is love and love and love--so
needs must I away."

"And think you so to escape this love, my Beltane, and the pain of it?"

"Nay my father, that were thing impossible for it doth fill the