“Sweet my lord, it liketh me beyond telling, thy roan is a peerless beast!” sighed Sir Jocelyn, and so fell once more to humming his song beneath his breath.

Now Beltane had wrestled oft with strangers in the greenwood and had learned many cunning and desperate holds; moreover, he had learned to bide his time; thus, though Gefroi’s iron muscles yet pinned his arms, he waited, calm-eyed but with every nerve a-quiver, for that moment when Gefroi’s vicious grip should slacken.

To and fro the wrestlers swayed, knee to knee and breast to breast, fierce and silent and grim.  As hath been said, this Gefroi was a very cunning fellow, and once and twice, he put forth all his strength seeking to use a certain cruel trick whereby many a goodly man had died ere now; but once, and twice, the hold was foiled, yet feebly and as though by chance, and Gefroi wondered; a third time he essayed it therefore, but, in that moment, sudden and fierce and strong, Beltane twisted in his loosened grasp, found at last the deadly hold he sought, and Gefroi wondered no more, for about him was a painful grip that grew ever tighter and more relentless.  Now Gefroi’s breath grew short and laboured, the muscles stood out on his writhing body in knotted cords, but ever that cruel grip grew more deadly, crushing his spirit and robbing him of his wonted strength.  And those about them watched that mighty struggle, hushed for wonder of it; even Sir Jocelyn had forgot his lock of hair, and hummed no more.

For, desperately though he fought and struggled, they saw Gefroi’s great body was bending slowly backward; his eyes stared up, wild and bloodshot, into the fierce, set face above him; swaying now, he saw the wide ring of faces, the quiver of leaves and the blue beyond, all a-swim through the mist of Beltane’s yellow hair, and then, writhing in his anguish, he turned and buried his teeth in Beltane’s naked arm, and with a cunning twist, broke from that deadly grip and staggered free.

Straightway the air was full of shouts and cries, some praising, some condemning, while Gefroi stood with hanging arms and panted.  But Beltane looking upon his hurt, laughed, short and fierce, and as Gefroi came upon him, stooped and caught him below the loins.  Then Beltane the strong, the mighty, put forth his strength and, whirling Gefroi aloft, hurled him backwards over his shoulder.  So Gefroi the wrestler fell, and lay with hairy arms wide-tossed as one that is dead, and for a space no man spake for the wonder of it.

“By all the Saints, but ’twas a mighty throw!” sighed Sir Jocelyn, “though alack! sweet my lord, ’twould almost seem my forester hath something spoiled thy wrestler!”

“And is the roan stallion thine” frowned the Duke, “and to none would I lose him with a fairer grace, for ’twas a good bout as I foretold:  yet, by the head of St. Martin! meseemeth yon carrion might have done me better!” So saying, my lord Duke gave his horse the spur and, as he passed the prostrate form of Gefroi, leaned him down and smote the wrestler thrice with the whip he held and so rode on, bidding his followers let him lie.