ught, those fathers of Belsaye; thick and fast they fell, yet never
alone, while ever they raved on, a company of madmen, behind the
friar's white robe. Back and back the besiegers reeled before that
raging fury--twice the white friar was smitten down yet twice he arose,
smiting the fiercer, wherefore, because of his religious habit, the
deathly pallor of his sunken cheek and the glare of his eyes, panic
came, and all men shrank from the red sweep of his sword.

Then Sir Benedict sounded his horn, and sword in hand leapt over the
barricade, and behind him Beltane with Roger and Ulf and Walkyn and
their serried pikemen, while Sir Brian and Sir Hacon limped in their
rear.

"The breach!" cried Sir Benedict, "seize we now the breach!"

"The breach! The breach!" roared a hundred voices. And now within the
gloom steel rasped steel, groping hands seized and griped with
merciless fingers; figures, dim-seen, sank smitten, groaning beneath
the press. But on they fought, slipping and stumbling, hewing and
thrusting, up and up over ruined masonry, over forms that groaned
beneath cruel feet--on and ever on until within the narrow breach
Beltane's long sword darted and thrust and Ulf's axe whirled and fell,
while hard by Walkyn's hoarse shout went up in roaring triumph.

So within this narrow gap, where shapeless things stirred and whimpered
in the dark, Beltane leaned breathless upon his sword and looked down
upon the watch-fires of Duke Ivo's great camp. But, even as he gazed,
these fires were blotted out where dark figures mounted fresh to the
assault, and once again sword and axes fell to their dire work.

And ever as he fought Beltane bethought him of her whose pure lips
voiced prayers for him, and his mighty arm grew mightier yet, and he
smote and thrust untiring, while Walkyn raged upon his left, roaring
amain for Red Pertolepe, and Ulf the strong saved his breath to ply his
axe the faster.

Now presently as they fought thus, because the breach was grown very
slippery, Beltane tripped and fell, but in that instant two lusty
mailed legs bestrode him, and from the dimness above Roger's voice
hailed:

"Get thee back, master--I pray thee get back and take thy rest awhile,
my arm is fresh and my steel scarce blooded, so get thee to thy rest--
moreover thou art a notch, lord--another accursed notch from my belt!"

Wherefore Beltane presently crept down from the breach and thus beheld
many men who laboured amain beneath Sir