They thundered into the open stretch of grass with a clangorous rattle of steel. Flavian, bare-headed, for his salade hung at his saddle-bow and he wore no camail, scanned the glade with a keen stare. Seeing Fra Balthasar seated under a tree, he turned his horse towards him, and smiled as the churchman put his tools aside and gave him a benediction. The man made a fine figure; judged by the flesh, Balthasar might have stood for an Ambrose or a Leo. "Herald of heaven, how goes the work?" "Sire, we emulate Pericles." "What have you there, a woman’s head, some rare Madonna?" Balthasar showed his white teeth. "A pretty pastoral, messire. The study of a lady who had lost her way hunting, and craved my guidance this morning. A woman with the face and figure of a Dian." "Ha, rogue of the brush, let us see it." Balthasar passed the parchment into the other’s hand. Flavian stared at it, flushed to the temples, rapped out an ejaculation in ecclesiastic Latin. His eyes devoured the sketch with the insatiable enthusiasm of a lover; words came hot off his tongue. "Quick, man, quick, is this true to life?" "As ruby to ruby." "None of your idealisations?" "Messire, but an hour ago that girl was sitting her horse where your destrier now stands." "And you sketched this at her desire?" "At my own, sire; it was courtesy for courtesy: I had shown her our handiwork here." "You showed her this tower and chapel?" "Certainly, sire." "She seemed sad?" "Nay, merry." "This is romance!" He lifted the little picture at arm’s length to the sun, kissed it, and put it in his bosom. His face was radiant; he laughed as though some golden joy rang and resounded in his heart. "A hundred golden angels for this face!" Fra Balthasar was in great measure mystified. The Lord of Avalon seemed an inflammable gentleman. "Messire, you are ever generous." "Man, man, you have caught the one woman in the world." "Sire----" "The Madonna of the Pine Forest, the Madonna of Mercy; she whose kinsfolk were put to the sword by my men; even the daughter of Rual whose tower stands yonder." The priest comprehended the whole in a moment. The dramatic quaintness of the adventure had made him echo Flavian’s humour. He laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "Romance, romance! By all the lovers who ever loved, by Tristan and the dark Iseult, by Launcelot and Guinivere, follow that picture." "Which way went she?" "By the southern ride, towards Gilderoy." The man was in heroic humour; his sword flashed out and shook in the sun. "By God, I’ll see her face again, and yet again, though I burn in hell for it. Roland, Godamar, come, men, come, throw away your spears. Ride, ride, we chase the sunset. Life and desire!"