her yet
upon the plateau a wild medley of the dead of all nations, where the
last deadly grapple had left them. In the further corner, under the
shadow of a great rock, there crouched seven bowmen, with great John
in the centre of them--all wounded, weary, and in sorry case, but still
unconquered, with their blood-stained weapons waving and their voices
ringing a welcome to their countrymen. Alleyne rode across to John,
while Sir Hugh Calverley followed close behind him.

"By Saint George!" cried Sir Hugh, "I have never seen signs of so stern
a fight, and I am right glad that we have been in time to save you."

"You have saved more than us," said John, pointing to the banner which
leaned against the rock behind him.

"You have done nobly," cried the old free companion, gazing with a
soldier's admiration at the huge frame and bold face of the archer. "But
why is it, my good fellow, that you sit upon this man."

"By the rood! I had forgot him," John answered, rising and dragging
from under him no less a person than the Spanish caballero, Don Diego
Alvarez. "This man, my fair lord, means to me a new house, ten cows,
one bull--if it be but a little one--a grindstone, and I know not what
besides; so that I thought it well to sit upon him, lest he should take
a fancy to leave me."

"Tell me, John," cried Alleyne faintly: "where is my dear lord, Sir
Nigel Loring?"

"He is dead, I fear. I saw them throw his body across a horse and ride
away with it, but I fear the life had gone from him."

"Now woe worth me! And where is Aylward?"

"He sprang upon a riderless horse and rode after Sir Nigel to save him.
I saw them throng around him, and he is either taken or slain."

"Blow the bugles!" cried Sir Hugh, with a scowling brow. "We must back
to camp, and ere three days I trust that we may see these Spaniards
again. I would fain have ye all in my company."

"We are of the White Company, my fair lord," said John.

"Nay, the White Company is here disbanded," answered Sir Hugh solemnly,
looking round him at the lines of silent figures, "Look to the brave
squire, for I fear that he will never see the sun rise again."

CHAPTER XXXVIII. OF THE HOME-COMING TO HAMPSHIRE.

It was a bright July morning four months after that fatal fight in the
Spanish barranca. A blue heaven stretched above, a green rolling plain
undulated below, intersected with hedge-rows and flecked with grazing
sheep. The sun was yet low in the heaven,