And now, no man spake or moved, but all stood rigid and scarce breathing, waiting for the end.  For Tostig, smiling no more, stood agape as one that doubts his senses, then laughed he loud and long, and turned as if to reach his sword that leaned against the tree and, in that instant, sprang straight for Beltane’s throat, his griping hands outstretched; but swift as he, Beltane, letting fall his axe, slipped aside and smote with mailed fist, and as Tostig reeled from the blow, closed with and caught him in a deadly wrestling hold, for all men might see Beltane had locked one arm ’neath Tostig’s bearded chin and that Tostig’s shaggy head was bending slowly backwards.  Then the outlaws surged closer, a dark, menacing ring where steel flickered; but lo! to Roger’s right hand sprang Walkyn, gripping his axe, and upon his left came Giles, his long-bow poised, a shaft upon the string; so stood the three alert and watchful, eager for fight, what time the struggle waxed ever more fierce and deadly.  To and fro the wrestlers swayed, locked in vicious grapple, grimly silent save for the dull trampling of their feet upon the moss and the gasp and hiss of panting breaths; writhing and twisting, stumbling and slipping, or suddenly still with feet that gripped the sod, with bulging muscles, swelled and rigid, that cracked beneath the strain, while eye glared death to eye.  But Beltane’s iron fingers were fast locked, and little by little, slow but sure, Tostig’s swart head was tilting up and back, further and further, until his forked beard pointed upwards—­until, of a sudden, there brake from his writhen lips a cry, loud and shrill that sank to groan and ended in a sound—­a faint sound, soft and sudden.  But now, behold, Tostig’s head swayed loosely backwards behind his shoulders, his knees sagged, his great arms loosed their hold:  then, or he could fall, Beltane stooped beneath and putting forth all his strength, raised him high above his head, and panting, groaning with the strain, turned and hurled dead Tostig down into the pool whose sullen waters leapt to a mighty splash, and presently subsiding, whispered softly in the reeds; and for a while no man stirred or spoke, only Beltane stood upon the marge and panted.

Then turned he to the outlaws, and catching up his axe therewith pointed downwards to that stilly pool whose placid waters seemed to hold nought but a glory of floating stars.

“Behold,” he panted, “here was an evil man—­a menace to well-being, wherefore is he dead.  But as for ye, come tell me—­how long will ye be slaves?”

Hereupon rose a hoarse murmur that grew and grew—­Then stood the man Perkyn forward, and scowling, pointed at Beltane with his spear.

“Comrades!” he cried, “he hath slain Tostig!  He hath murdered our leader—­come now, let us slay him!” and speaking, he leapt at Beltane with levelled spear, but quick as he leapt, so leapt Walkyn, his long arms rose and fell, and thereafter, setting his foot upon Perkyn’s body, he shook his bloody axe in the scowling faces of the outlaws.