Now ran Beltane where stood Roger to hold his horse, with Ulf who leaned upon a goodly axe and young Sir John of Griswold, who clenched and wrung his mailed hands and bit upon his boyish lip and stamped in his impatience.

“My lord,” he cried, “my lord, suffer us to charge—­ah! see—­our good Sir Benedict will be surrounded—­cut off—­”

“Nay, methinks he is too wise in war, he fighteth ever with calm head, Sir John.”

“But, messire, do but see—­his charge is checked—­see—­see, he yieldeth ground—­he giveth back!”

“Aye, verily!” quoth Beltane, springing to saddle, “but behold how he orders his line!  O lovely knight!  O wise Benedict!  See you not his wisdom now, Sir John?  In his retreat he draweth Sir Pertolepe’s main battle athwart our line of charge, their flank exposed and open—­to horse, Sir John, to horse!  Yet stir not until I give the word.”  Forthwith sprang Sir John to saddle and Roger and Ulf also, what time Beltane sat, his gaze upon the conflict, his bugle-horn in his hand; of a sudden he clapped it to lip and sounded the old fierce rallying note.  High and shrill and loud it rang above the roar of battle, and lo! distant and far, like an answer to the call, from the grim and battered tower of Brand a mighty shout went up—­“Arise!  Arise!—­Pentavalon!”

“Oho!” cried Roger, sitting close on Beltane’s left, “list ye to that, now!  And see—­ha! there cometh our long-legged Walkyn, first of them all!  See how they order their pikes—­O master, they be sweet and doughty fellows!  See how Jenkyn’s archers shoot—­each man to the ear!”

Awhile sat Beltane watching, wide-eyed, while Sir Benedict, fighting sword in hand, fell back and back before the furious onset of Sir Pertolepe’s main battle until he had drawn the fight mid-way.  Then, quick-breathing, my Beltane closed his vizor.

“Now!” cried he, “now, good comrades all, God willing, we have them.  Let each man choose his foe and smite this day for Liberty and Justice!”

So saying, he levelled his lance, and a hundred lances sank behind him.  Spurs struck deep, horses reared, plunged, and sped away.  Before their galloping line rode Sir John of Griswold with Roger and Ulf:  and before these, Beltane.

He felt the wind a-whistle through the eye-vents of his casque, heard the muffled thunder of the galloping hoofs behind mingled with the growing din of battle; heard a shout—­a roar of anger and dismay, saw a confusion of rearing horses as Sir Pertolepe swung about to meet this new attack, steadied his aim, and with his hundred lances thundering close behind, drove in upon those bristling ranks to meet them shield to shield with desperate shock of onset—­felt his tough lance go home with jarring crash—­saw horses that reared high and were gone, lost beneath the trampling fray, and found his lance shivered to the very grip.  Out flashed his sword, for all about him was a staggering press of horses that neighed