e narrow vent of his casque he caught small and
sudden visions of this close-locked, desperate fray; of Ulf standing in
his stirrups to ply his whirling axe whose mighty, crashing blows no
armour might withstand; of grim Roger, scowling and fierce, wielding
ponderous broad-sword; of young Sir John of Griswold, reeling in his
saddle, his helpless arms wide-flung.

So cut they bloody path through Pertolepe's deep array, on and forward
with darting point and deep-biting edge, unheeding wounds or shock of
blows, until Beltane beheld the press yield, thin out, and melt away,
thereupon shouted he hoarse and loud, rode down a knight who sought to
bar his way, unhorsed a second, and wheeling his snorting charger,
wondered at the seeming quiet; then lifting his vizor, looked about
him. And lo! wheresoever his glance fell were men that crawled
groaning, or lay very mute and still amid a huddle of fallen horses,
and, beyond these again, were other men, a-horse and a-foot, that
galloped and ran amain for the shelter of the green. Sir Pertolepe's
array was scattered up and down the valley--the battle was lost and
won.

Now while he yet sat thus, dazed by the shock of blows and breathing
deep of the sweet, cool air, he beheld one rise up from where the
battle-wrack lay thickest, an awful figure that limped towards him,
holding aloft the broken shaft of an axe.

"Aha, lord Beltane!" cried Ulf, wiping sweat and blood from him, "there
be no more--left to smite, see you. The which--is well, for weapon--
have I none. This axe was the third this day--broken, see you! Alas!
there is no weapon I may use. Saw you Roger, lord, that is my comrade?"

"Nay, good Ulf--ha, what of him?"

"His horse was slain, lord. So fought he afoot, since when I saw him
not."

"And where is Sir Benedict and Walkyn--O see you not Sir Benedict? mine
eyes are dazzled with the sun."

But now Ulf uttered a joyful cry and pointed with his axe-shaft.

"Yonder cometh Roger, lord, and with him the little archer, but whom
bring they?"

Very slowly they came, Roger and Prat the archer, up-bearing betwixt
them good Sir Hubert of Erdington, his harness hacked and broken, his
battered helm a-swing upon its thongs, his eyes a-swoon in the pallor
of his face.

Down sprang Beltane and ran to greet him and to catch his nerveless
hands:

"Lord Beltane," quoth he, faintly, "full oft have I shed my blood for--
Pentavalon--to-day I die, messire. But, as thou didst say--