With rhythmic step and swing of broad mailed shoulders they marched until they were come down into the valley.  And now, as they advanced swift and steady, rose shouts from besieged and besiegers; Sir Pertolepe’s trumpets brayed defiance and alarm, and of a sudden, forth of his camp mailed horsemen rode rank upon rank, pennons a-flutter and armour flashing in the sunset glare.  But, as they mustered to the charge, as shields flashed and lances sank, Sir Benedict’s pikemen wheeled, their ranks swung wide, and lo! the V was become an L. Now from this L bows twanged and arrows flew amain above the kneeling pikemen, what time Sir Pertolepe’s trumpets blared the charge, and down upon those slender ranks his heavy-armed chivalry thundered; horses reared and fell, screaming, beneath the whistling arrow-shower, but on swept the charge; those thin ranks bent and swayed ’neath the shock as lance crossed pike, but these pike-butts rested on firm ground and upon their deadly points, horses, smitten low, reared transfixed, and above these rocking pikes steel flashed and flickered where the stout archers plied their heavy broadswords, while, loud above the din, Sir Hubert’s voice boomed hoarse encouragement what time he thrust and smote above the kneeling pikemen.

Now out from the green Sir Benedict paced astride his great black charger, and behind him his two hundred steel-girt knights and men-at-arms, their vizors closed, their shields slung before, the points of their long and ponderous lances agleam high in air.  Then turned Sir Benedict and looked on their grimly ranks, glad-eyed: 

“O sirs,” quoth he, “who would not be a man to fight in such just cause!”

So saying, he smiled his wry and twisted smile and closed his vizor:  then, with shield addressed and feet thrust far within the stirrups he lightly feutred his deadly lance; and behold! down swept every lance behind him as, leaning low behind his shield, he shouted right joyously: 

“Come ye, messires—­lay on this day for Pentavalon!”

Forward bounded the great horses a-down the slope—­away, away, gathering speed with every stride—­away, away, across the level with flying rein and busy spur; and now a loud shouting and dire amaze among Sir Pertolepe’s battle with desperate wheeling of ranks and spurring of rearing horses, while Sir Benedict’s riders swept down on them, grim and voiceless, fast and faster.  Came a roaring crash beneath whose dire shock Sir Pertolepe’s ranks were riven and rent asunder, and over and through their red confusion Sir Benedict rode in thunderous, resistless might, straight for where, above their mid-most, close-set ranks, fluttered and flew Sir Pertolepe’s Raven banner.  Now, in hot haste, Sir Pertolepe launched another charge to check that furious onset, what time he reformed and strengthened his main battle; but, with speed unchecked, Sir Benedict’s mighty ranks met them in full career—­broke them, flung them reeling back on Sir Pertolepe’s staggering van and all was wild disorder, above which roaring tumult the Raven banner reeled and swayed and the fray waxed ever fiercer.