Now as he yet spake rose the shrill notes of a horn, and turning about, Sir Robert beheld men whose mail glistened in the torchlight and whose long pikes hemmed him in close and closer what time a fierce shout went up:  “Kill!” “Kill!”

“Ho, treason!” he roared, and grasped at his sword hilt; but down came Roger’s heavy broadsword upon Sir Robert’s helm, beating him to earth where Walkyn’s mighty foot crushed him down and his axe gleamed bright.  Then, while the air rang with shouts and cries and the clatter of trampling hoofs, a white figure leapt and bestrode the fallen knight, and Walkyn glared down into the pale face of Friar Martin.

“Forbear, Walkyn, forbear!” he cried, and speaking, staggered for very weakness and would have fallen but Walkyn’s long arm was about him.  And ever the uproar grew; the grim ranks of archers and pikemen drew closer about Sir Robert’s shrinking men-at-arms what time the townsfolk, brandishing their weapons, shouted amain, “Kill!  Kill!”

Now Roger’s blow had been full lusty and Sir Robert yet lay a-swoon, seeing which, divers of his company, casting down their arms, cried aloud for quarter; whereat the townsfolk shouted but the fiercer:  “Slay them!  Kill!  Kill!” But now, high above this clamour, rose the shrill note of Beltane’s horn bidding all men to silence.  Hereupon there came to him the white friar, who, looking earnestly upon his mailed face, uttered a sudden glad cry and caught his hand and kissed it; then turned he to the surging concourse and spake loud and joyously: 

“Stay, good people of Belsaye!  O ye children of affliction, spill not the blood of these thine enemies, but look, rather, upon this man!  For this is he of whom I told ye in the days of your tribulation, this is he who burned the shameful gallows, who brake open the dungeon and hath vowed his life to the cause of the oppressed and weak.  Behold now the son of Beltane the Strong and Just!  Behold Beltane, our rightful Duke!” Now went there up to heaven a great and wild acclaim; shouts of joy and the thunderous battle-cry “Arise!  Arise!  Pentavalon!” Then, while all eyes beheld and all ears hearkened, Beltane spake him, plain and to the point, as was his custom: 

“Behold now, men of Belsaye, these our enemies do cry us mercy, and shall we not bestow it?  Moreover one living hostage is better than two foemen slain.  Entreat them gently, therefore, but let me see them lodged secure ere I march hence.”

But hereupon came many of the townsfolk with divers counsellors and chief men of the city who, kneeling, most earnestly prayed Beltane to abide for their defence.

“Good my lord,” quoth the Reeve, “bethink thee, when Duke Ivo shall hear of our doings he will seek bitter vengeance.  Ah, my lord, ’twas but five years agone he stormed Belsaye and gave it up to pillage—­and on that day—­my wife—­was slain!  And when he had set up his great gallows and hanged it full with our men, he vowed that, should Belsaye anger him again, he would burn the city and all within it and, O my lord, my lord—­I have yet a daughter—­Ah, good my lord, leave us not to ravishment and death!”