l was dire
uproar and confusion.

"Ah, Beltane--these be fresh men on fresh horses," cried Sir Benedict,
"but hey--body o' me--all's not lost yet--malediction, no! And 'tis
scarce half a mile to the gates. Ha--yonder rides lusty Hacon to stay
their rush--in upon them. Beltane--Ho, Pentavalon!"

Shouting thus, Sir Benedict plunged headlong into the raging fury of
the battle; but, as Beltane spurred in after him, his weary charger,
smitten by an arrow, reared up, screaming, yet ere he fell, Beltane,
kicking free of the stirrups, rolled clear; a mighty hand plucked him
to his feet and Ulf, roaring in his ear, pointed with his dripping axe.
And, looking whither he pointed, Beltane beheld Sir Benedict borne down
beneath a press of knights, but as he lay, pinned beneath his squealing
charger, Beltane leapt and bestrode him, sword in hand.

"Roger!" he shouted, "Ulf--Walkyn--to me!"

All about him was a swaying trample of horses and men, an iron ring
that hemmed him in, blows dinted his long shield, they rang upon his
helmet, they battered his triple mail, they split his shield in sunder;
and 'neath this hail of blows Beltane staggered, thrice he was smitten
to his knees and thrice he arose, and ever his long blade whirled and
darted.

"Yield thee, sir knight--yield thee!" was the cry.

"Ho, Roger!" he shouted hoarsely, "Ulf--Walkyn, to me!"

An axe bit through his great helm, a sword bent against his stout mail,
a knight spurred in upon him, blade levelled to thrust again, but
Beltane's deadly point darted upward and the snorting charger plunged
away--riderless.

But now, as he fought on with failing arm, came a joyous roar on his
right where Ulf smote direly with bloody axe, upon his left hand a
broad-sword flickered where Roger fought silent and grim, beyond him
again, Walkyn's long arms rose and fell as he whirled his axe, and hard
by Tall Orson plied goring pike. So fought these mighty four until the
press thinned out and they had cleared them a space amid the battle,
the while Beltane leaned him, spent and panting, upon his reeking
sword.

Now, as he stood thus, from a tangle of the fallen near by a bent and
battered helm was lifted and Sir Benedict spake, faint and short of
breath:

"'Twas nobly done--sweet lad! 'Tis enough, methinks--there be few of
us left, I fear me, so--get thee hence--with such as be alive--hence,
Beltane, for--thy sweet mother's sake. Nay, heed not--old Benedict, I
did my best and--'