nd man to man,
while Sir Pertolepe, sitting his great white charger, nursed his big
chin and, smiling, waited his chance. Presently, from the eddying
cloud staggered the broken remnant of Sir Gilles' van-ward, whereon,
laughing fierce and loud, Sir Pertolepe rose in his stirrups with
Beltane's long sword lifted high, his trumpets brayed the charge, and
down the hill thundered Sir Pertolepe and all his array; and the road
near by was deserted, save for the prisoners and the four archers who
stood together, their faces set down-hill, where the dust rose denser
and denser, and the roar of the conflict fierce and loud.

But now, above the din and tumult of the fight below, shrill and high
rose the notes of a horn winded from the woods in the east, that was
answered--like an echo, out of the woods in the west; and, down the
banks to right and left, behold Sir Pertolepe's archers came leaping
and tumbling, pursued by a hissing arrow shower. Whereat up sprang
Giles, despite his bonds, shouting amain:

"O, Walkyn o' the Long Legs--a rescue! To us! Arise, I will arise!" Now
while he shouted thus, came one of the four archers, and Giles was
smitten to his knees; but, as the archer whirled up his quarter-staff
to strike again, an arrow took him full in the throat, and pitching
upon his face, he lay awhile, coughing, in the dust.

Now as his comrades yet stared upon this man so suddenly dead, down
from the bank above leapt one who bore a glittering axe, with divers
wild and ragged fellows at his heels; came a sound of shouting and
blows hard smitten, a rush of feet and, thereafter, silence, save for
the din of battle afar. But, upon the silence, loud and sudden rose a
high-pitched quavering laugh, and Giles spake, his voice yet shrill and
unsteady.

"'Twas Walkyn--ha, Saint Giles bless Walkyn's long legs! 'Twas Walkyn I
saw--Walkyn hath brought down the outlaws--the woods be full of them.
Oho! Sir Pertolepe's slow fire shall not roast me yet awhile, nor his
dogs mumble the carcase, my Rogerkin!"

"Aye," quoth Roger feebly, "but what of my lord, see how still he
lieth!"

"Forsooth," exclaimed the archer, writhing in his bonds to stare upon
Beltane, "forsooth, Roger, he took a dour ding upon his yellow pate,
look ye; but for his mail-coif he were a dead man this hour--"

"He lieth very still," groaned Roger.

"Yet is he a mighty man and strong, my Rogerkin-never despond, man,
for I tell thee--ha!--heard ye that outcry? The