“Messire,” said Beltane beginning to frown, “within thy wild and foolish talk is this much truth, that I, with divers trusty comrades, did indeed burn down the shameful gallows of Belsaye, and bore captive a certain lordly knave.  As for Garthlaxton, the thing was simple—­”

“O boastful boy!” quoth the knight, tossing aside his shield, “O beardless one, since thou dost proclaim thyself this desperate rogue, here is reason just for some small debate betwixt us.  Do on thy coif forthwith, for now will I strive to make an end of thee,” and speaking, the knight unsheathed a long and ponderous sword.

“How an I fight thee not, sir knight?”

“Then must I needs belabour thee to the good of thy soul, sir outlaw.  So on with thy coif, I say!”

Incontinent ran Roger to fetch his bascinet the which Beltane slowly fitted on above his hood of mail, and thereafter, albeit unwillingly, fronted this doughty knight, foot to foot and point to point.  Now stepped they a moment about each other, light-treading for all their weighty armour, and with long blades advanced; then, of a sudden they closed, and immediately the air shivered to the ring and grind of flashing, whirling steel.  To and fro, and up and down they fought upon the level sward what time Black Roger rubbed complacent hands, grim-smiling and confident; and ever as they fought the stranger knight laughed and gibed, harsh and loud, from behind his grimly casque.

“Ho!—­fight, youth, fight!” cried he, “have done with love-taps!  Sa-ha, have at thee—­fight, I say!” A panther-like side-leap, a whirl of glimmering steel, and his long blade smote sparks from Beltane’s bascinet, whereat Roger’s smile, incontinent, vanished, and his face waxed suddenly anxious and long.

But fierce and fiercer the stranger knight beset my Beltane, the while he lashed him with mocking tongue: 

“Call ye this fighting, sir youthful outlaw?  Doth thine arm fail thee so soon?  Tap not, I say, lest I grow angered and slay thee forthright!”

Then, blow for blow, did Beltane the mighty fall on right furiously, but ever blade met blade whiles Roger danced on anxious feet, praying for the end.  Of a sudden, shouted he joyously, for, flashing high in air, down came Beltane’s long blade strong and true upon the knight’s helm—­a fell, deep-dinting stroke that drave the stranger reeling back.  Fierce and swift leapt Beltane to smite again—­came a shock of clashing steel, a flurry of stroke and counter-stroke, and thereafter, a hoarse shout of dismay from Roger:  for Beltane stood as one dazed, staring upon his empty right hand what time the knight boomed derisive laughter through his vizor.  Then sprang grim Roger, dagger aloft, but swifter than he, the knight’s sword swung; flat fell that long blade on Roger’s bascinet, wielded by an arm so strong that Roger, staggering aside, rolled upon the ling, and thereafter, sat up, round-eyed and fearful: