Forward bounded the two high-mettled steeds, gathering pace with every stride, but the great hounds came on amain, while beyond, distant as yet, the hunters rode—­knight and squire, mounted bowman and man-at-arms they spurred and shouted, filling the air with fierce halloo.  Slowly the hounds drew nearer—­ten great beasts Beltane counted—­that galloped two and two, whining and whimpering as they came.

Now of a sudden Beltane checked in his career, swerved, swung the plunging roan, and with long blade agleam, rode in upon the racing pack to meet their rush with deadly point and deep-biting edge; a slavering hound launched itself at his throat, its fangs clashing on the stout links of his camail, but as the great beast hung thus, striving to drag him from the saddle, down came the mace of Sir Fidelis and the snarling beast fell to be crushed ’neath the trampling hoofs of the war-horse Mars.  And now did the mighty roan prove himself a very Mars indeed, for, beset round about by fierce, lean shapes that crouched and leapt with cruel, gleaming fangs, he stamped and reared and fought them off, neighing loud defiance.  Thus, with lashing hoof, with whirling mace and darting sword fought they, until of the hounds there none remained save three that limped painfully to cover, licking their hurts as they went.

But other foes were near, for as Beltane reined his snorting steed about, he swayed in his stirrups ’neath the shock of a cross-bow bolt that glanced, whirring, from his bascinet, and in that moment Sir Fidelis cried aloud: 

“My lord, my lord! alas, my poor horse is death-smitten!” Glancing round.  Beltane beheld Sir Fidelis slip to earth as his charger, rearing high, crashed over, his throat transfixed by a cloth-yard shaft.  Now did their many pursuers shout amain, fierce and joyful, goading their horses to swifter pace what time Beltane frowned from them to Sir Fidelis, who stood, mailed hands tight-clasped, watching Beltane eager and great-eyed.

“Ah!” cried Beltane, smiting hand to thigh in bitter anger, “now is my hope of ambush and surprise like to be marred by reason of thee, sir knight, for one horse may never carry us twain!”

“Why then, I can die here, my lord, an it be so thy will!” spake Sir Fidelis, his pale lips a tremble, “yet is thy horse strong and—­O in sooth I did yearn—­for life.  But, an thou wilt give me death—­”

“Come!” cried Beltane hoarsely.  “Come, wherefore tarry ye?”

Now leapt Sir Fidelis to the saddle of his fallen steed and snatched thence a wallet, whereat Beltane fell a-fuming, for bolts and arrows began to whirr and hum thick and fast.  “Come—­mount, sir knight—­mount ye up behind me.  Thy hand—­quick! thy foot on my foot—­so!  Now set thy two arms fast about me and see thou loose me not, for now must we ride for the wild—­brush and thicket, stock and stone, nought must let or stay us—­so loose me not, sir knight!”

“Ah—­not while life remain, messire Beltane!” said the young knight quick-breathing, and speaking, took Beltane within two mailed arms that clasped and clung full close.  Then, wheeling sharp about, Beltane stooping low, struck sudden spurs and they plunged, crashing, into the denser green.