“My lord Beltane, how think you of this thy new-found company?”

“Men—­ha! men, good Benedict—­soldiers born and bred!”

“Forsooth, and ’neath mine own eye, Beltane.  There is not one but I have watched him in the stress of battle.  Body o’ me, but I have chosen needfully, there is none but hath proved his worthiness!  See you the little man yonder, in half-mail with sword as great as himself—­he that pipeth shrill-voiced as a boy?  ’Tis Prat who alone stood off a score what time I lay wounded and pinned beneath my charger.  Mark ye yon lusty fellow beside him?  ’Tis Cnut that, single-handed, hewed him a path through Ivo’s battle and bare away his own banner, the which doth grace my hall at Thrasfordham e’en now.  And yonder is Dirk that was a slave, yet fighteth like a paladin.  And there again is Siward, that with his brother maintained the sallyport ’gainst Ivo’s van what time they drave us from the outer bailey.  And yonder Cedric—­but so could I name them each and every—­ha! there sounds the welcome tucket!  Come, let us break our fast, and there be many knights and esquires and gentles of degree do wait to pay thee homage.”

So presently came they into the midst of the camp, where, seated on the mossy ling, hungry and expectant, were many noble lords and gentle knights and esquires of degree, who, beholding Sir Benedict with Beltane, rose up with one accord.  Young men were these for the most part, yet were there many grizzled heads and wrinkled brows among them—­ grim lords of the old Duke’s following much versed in war, calm of judgment and wise in council; but one and all did they stare upon my Beltane in wonder at his youth because of his so famous deeds.

Now spake to them Sir Benedict, short and soldier-like: 

“My lords, this is he of whom ye all have heard, Beltane hight, son of Beltane our Duke, for whom we together have held Thrasfordham so long and painfully.  My lord Beltane, of all the knights and nobles of the Duke thy father’s days, here do stand, sire or son, all that have withstood Black Ivo.  Behold here Sir Bertrand, that was thy father’s seneschal of Pentavalon City.  Here, Sir John of Griswold whose sire bare thy father’s banner, wherefore Griswold is ashes long since.  Here Hubert of Erdington, that was thy father’s marshal-of-the-field.  Here, Hacon of Trant, that was wont to lead thy father’s vanward, and here, Sir Brian of Hartismere, brother to Eric, called the Wry-neck.  So now, all’s said, my lord, wherefore I pray, let us eat.”

Forthwith down they sat together on the grass, all and sundry, and ate and drank and laughed and talked, insomuch that in brake and thicket near and far the birds carolled and chattered in pretty mockery.

“Lord Beltane,” quoth Sir Benedict when the meal was ended, “ere I met thee, ’twas my intent this hour to march on Winisfarne, according to my promise to Waldron of Brand, how say you?”

“Forsooth,” nodded Beltane, “as soon as ye will.”