"Beltane, dear my lad," said Sir Benedict as they rode together, "hast
told me nought of thy doings last night--what of Sir Rollo?"

"Nay, Benedict, ask me not yet, only rest ye assured Sir Rollo shall
not trouble us this side Belsaye. But pray, how doth our brave Sir
Brian?"

"Well enough, Beltane; he lieth in a litter, being tended by thy noble
lady mother. A small lance-thrust 'neath the gorget, see'st thou,
'twill be healed--Ha, they charge us again--stand firm, pikes!" So
shouting, Sir Benedict wheeled his horse and Beltane with him, and once
again the road echoed to the din of battle.

Thus all day long they fought their way south along the forest-road,
as, time and again, Sir Pertolepe's heavy chivalry thundered down upon
them, to check and break before that hedge of deadly pikes. So marched
this valiant rear-guard, parched with thirst, choked with dust, grim
with blood and wounds, until, as the sun sank westwards, the woods
thinned away and they beheld at last, glad-eyed and joyful, the walls
and towers of fair Belsaye town. Now just beyond the edge of the
woods, Sir Benedict halted his shrunken column, his dusty pikemen drawn
up across the narrow road with archers behind supported by his cavalry
to hold Sir Pertolepe's powers in check amid the woods what time the
nuns with the spent and wounded hasted on towards the city.

Hereupon Beltane raised his vizor and setting horn to lip, sounded the
rally. And lo! from the city a glad and mighty shout went up, the while
above the square and frowning keep a great standard arose and flapping
out upon the soft air, discovered a red lion on a white field.

"Aha, Beltane!" quoth Sir Benedict, "yon is a rare-sweet sight--behold
thy father's Lion banner that hath not felt the breeze this many a
year--"

"Aye, lords," growled Walkyn, "and yonder cometh yet another lion--a
black lion on red!" and he pointed where, far to their left, a red
standard flaunted above the distant glitter of a wide-flung battle
line.

"Hast good eyes, Walkyn!" said Sir Benedict, peering 'neath his hand
toward the advancing host, "aye, verily--'tis Ivo himself. Sir
Pertolepe must have warned him of our coming."

"So are we like to be crushed 'twixt hammer and anvil," quoth Sir
Hacon, tightening the lacing of his battered casque.

"So will I give thee charge of our knights and men-at-arms--what is
left of them, alas!--to meet Black Ivo's banner, my doleful Hacon!"
spake Sir Benedict.

"Na