'tis well to
die--in cause so noble! My lord, farewell to thee!"

And with the word, even as he stood 'twixt Roger and the archer, the
stout old knight was dead. So they laid Hubert of Erdington very
reverently upon that trampled field he had maintained so well.

"A right noble knight, my lord," quoth Prat, shaking gloomy head, "but
for him, methinks our pikemen would have broke to their third onset!"

"There is no man of you hath not fought like ten men this day!" said
Beltane, leaning on his sword and with head a-droop. "Have we lost
many, know ye?"

"A fair good number, master, as was to be expected," quoth Roger,
cleansing his sword on a tuft of grass, "Sir John of Griswold fell
beside me deep-smitten through the helm."

"And what of Sir Benedict?"

"See yonder--yonder he rides, my lord!" cried Prat, "though methinks
you scarce shall know him." And he pointed where, on spent and weary
charger, one rode, a drooping, languid figure, his bright armour
bespattered and dim, his dinted casque smitten awry; slowly he rode
before his weary company until of a sudden espying Beltane, he uttered
a great and glad cry, his drooping shoulders straightened, and he rode
forward with mailed arms outstretched.

"Beltane!" he cried, "praise be to God! One told me thou wert down--art
well, sweet lad, and all unharmed? God is merciful!" And he patted
Beltane's mailed shoulder, what time blood oozed from his steel
gauntlet and his sobbing charger hung weary head and snorted purple
foam. "O lad," quoth he, smiling his wry smile, "here was an hour worth
living for--though Sir Bertrand is sore hurt and many do lie dead of my
company."

"And here," sighed Beltane, "brave Hubert of Erdington--behold!"

"A gallant knight, Beltane! May I so valiantly die when that my time be
come. Truly 'twas a sharp debate what time it lasted, there be many
that will ride with us no more."

"And thou, my lord?" cried Beltane suddenly, "thy cheek so pale--
thou'rt hurt, Benedict!"

"Nought to matter, lad, save that it is my sword-arm: nay indeed, my
Beltane, 'twas but an axe bit through my vanbrace, 'twill heal within
the week. But take now my horn and summon ye our scattered company, for
I do lack the wind."

Knight and man-at-arms, limping and afoot, on horses weary and blown,
they came at the summons--archer and pike-man they came, a blood
be-spattered company; many were they that staggered, faint with wounds,
and many that sank upon the tram