“Ha, master!” he panted,—­“’tis done already—­see, they break and fly!”

“On!” cried Beltane, “on—­pursue! pursue! after them to the gate!”

With axe and spear, with sword and pike and gisarm they smote the fugitives across the wide space of the outer bailey, under the narrow arch of the gate-house and out upon the drawbridge beyond.  But here, of a sudden, the fugitives checked their flight as out from the barbican Walkyn leapt, brandishing his axe, and with the fifty at his back.  So there, upon the bridge, the fight raged fiercer than before; men smote and died, until of Sir Pertolepe’s garrison there none remained save they that littered that narrow causeway.

“Now by the good Saint Giles—­my patron saint,” gasped Giles, wiping the sweat from him, “here was a good and sweet affray, tall brother—­a very proper fight, pugnus et calcibus—­while it lasted—­”

“Aye,” growled Walkyn, spurning a smitten wretch down into the moat, “’twas ended too soon!  Be these all in faith, lord?”

But now upon the air rose shrill cries and piercing screams that seemed to split the dawn.

“O—­women!” cried Giles, and forthwith cleansed and sheathed his sword and fell to twirling his beard.

“Aha, the women!” cried a ragged fellow, turning about, “’tis their turn—­let us to the women—­” But a strong hand caught and set him aside and Beltane strode on before them all, treading swift and light until he was come to the chapel that stood beside the banqueting hall.  And here he beheld many women, young and fair for the most part, huddled about the high altar or struggling in the ragged arms that grasped them.  Now did they (these poor souls) looking up, behold one in knightly mail stained and foul with battle, yet very young and comely of face, who leaned him upon a mighty, blood-stained axe and scowled ’neath frowning brows.  Yet his frown was not for them, nor did his blue eyes pause at any one of them, whereat hope grew within them and with white hands outstretched they implored his pity.

“Men of Pentavalon,” said he, “as men this night have ye fought in goodly cause.  Will ye now forget your manhood and new-found honour, ye that did swear to me upon your swords?  Come, loose me these women!”

“Not so,” cried one, a great, red-headed rogue, “we have fought to pleasure thee—­now is our turn—­”

“Loose me these women!” cried Beltane, his blue eyes fierce.

“Nay, these be our booty, and no man shall gainsay us.  How think ye, comrades?”

Now Beltane smiled upon this red-haired knave and, smiling, drew a slow pace nearer, the great axe a-swing in his mailed hand.

“Fellow,” quoth he, kind-voiced, “get thee out now, lest I slay thee!” Awhile the fellow glared upon Beltane, beheld his smiling look and deadly eye, and slowly loosing his trembling captive, turned and strode out, muttering as he went.  Then spake Beltane to the shrinking women, yet even so his blue eyes looked upon none of them.  Quoth he: