and riding to the extremity of the courtyard, wheeled, and
couching their lances, spurred fiercely against each other. And now men
held their breath to behold these two great knights, who, crouched low
in their saddles, met midway in full career with crash and splintering
shock of desperate onset. Duke Beltane reeled in his stirrups,
recovered, and leaning forward stared down upon his enemy, who,
prostrate on his back, slowly lifted gauntleted hand that, falling
weakly, clashed upon the stones--a small sound, yet plain to be heard
by reason of that breathless hush.

Slow and stiffly Duke Beltane dismounted, and reeling in his gait, came
and knelt beside Black Ivo and loosed off his riven helm. Thereafter,
slow and painfully, he arose, and looking round upon all men, spake
faint-voiced.

"God--hath judged--betwixt us this day!" said he, "and to-day--
methinks--He doth summon me--to judgment--" Even as he spake he lifted
his hands, struggling with the lacing of his helmet, staggered, and
would have fallen, wherefore Beltane sprang forward. Yet one there was
quicker than he, one whose goodly armour, smirched and battered, yet
showed the blazon of Bourne.

"Benedict!" quoth Duke Beltane feebly, "faithful wert thou to the last!
O Benedict, where is my noble son!"

"Father!" cried Beltane, "thou hast this day won Pentavalon from her
shame and misery!" But the Duke lay very still in their arms and spake
no word.

So, when they had uncovered his white head, they bore him tenderly into
the great banqueting hall and laid him on goodly couch and cherished
him with water and wine, wherefore, in a while, he opened swooning
eyes.

"Beltane!" he whispered, "dear and noble son--thy manhood--hath belike
won thy father's soul to God's mercy. So do I leave thee to cherish all
those that--have known wrong and woe--by reason of my selfish life!
Dear son, bury me with thy--noble mother, but let me lie--at her feet,
Beltane. O had I been less selfish--in my sorrow! But God is merciful!
Benedict--kiss me--and thou, my Beltane--God calleth me--to rest. _In
manus tuas--Domine!_" Then Duke Beltane, that had been the Hermit
Ambrose, clasped his mailed hands and smiling wondrous glad and tender,
yielded his soul to God.

In a while Beltane came forth into the courtyard and beheld Sir Jocelyn
mustering their knightly prisoners in the ward below, for, with Black
Ivo's death, all resistance was ended. And now the trumpets blared,
rallying t