h whose far-flung branches cast a deep gloom. Within this
gloom lay my Beltane, stirring not and speaking no word, being faint
and sick with his hurts. But Giles the archer, sitting beside him,
vented by turns bitter curses upon Sir Pertolepe and humble prayers to
his patron saint, so fluent and so fast that prayers and curses became
strangely blent and mingled, on this wise:

"May Red Pertolepe be thrice damned with a candle to the blessed Saint
Giles that is my comfort and intercessor. May his bones rot within him
with my gold chain to sweet Saint Giles. May his tongue wither at the
roots--ah, good Saint Giles, save me from the fire. May he be cursed in
life and may the flesh shrivel on his bones and his soul be eternally
damned with another candle and fifty gold pieces to the altar of holy
Saint Giles--"

But now hearing Roger groan, the archer paused to admonish him thus:

"Croak not, Roger, croak not," quoth he, "think not upon thy vile body
--pray, man, pray--pray thyself speechless. Call reverently upon the
blessed saints as I do, promise them candles, Roger, promise hard and
pray harder lest we perish--I by fire and thou by Pertolepe's hounds.
Ill deaths, look you, aye, 'tis a cruel death to be burnt alive,
Roger!"

"To be torn by hounds is worse!" growled Roger.

"Nay, my Rogerkin, the fire is slower, methinks--I have watched good
flesh sear and shrivel ere now--ha! by Saint Giles, 'tis an evil
subject; let us rather think upon two others."

"As what, archer?"

"The long legs of our comrade Walkyn. Hist! hark ye to that bruit! Here
cometh Gilles of Brandonmere, meseemeth!" And now from the road in
front rose the sound of an approaching company, the tramp of weary
horses climbing the ascent with the sound of cheery voices upraised in
song; and ever the sinking sun glinted redly on helm and lance-point
where sat Sir Pertolepe's mailed riders, grim and silent, while the
cheery voices swelled near and more near, till, all at once, the song
died to a hum of amaze that rose to a warning shout that was drowned in
the blare of a piercing trumpet blast. Whereat down swept glittering
lance-point, forward leaned shining bascinet, and the first rank of Sir
Pertolepe's riders, striking spurs, thundered upon them down the hill;
came thereafter the shock of meeting ranks, with shouts and cries that
grew to a muffled roar. Up rose the dust, an eddying cloud wherein
steel flickered and dim forms strove, horse to horse a