and screamed, and men who smote, shouting, and were smitten; unseen blows battered him while he thrust and hewed, and wondered to see his long blade so dimmed and bloody.  And ever as he fought, through the narrow vent of his casque he caught small and sudden visions of this close-locked, desperate fray; of Ulf standing in his stirrups to ply his whirling axe whose mighty, crashing blows no armour might withstand; of grim Roger, scowling and fierce, wielding ponderous broad-sword; of young Sir John of Griswold, reeling in his saddle, his helpless arms wide-flung.

So cut they bloody path through Pertolepe’s deep array, on and forward with darting point and deep-biting edge, unheeding wounds or shock of blows, until Beltane beheld the press yield, thin out, and melt away, thereupon shouted he hoarse and loud, rode down a knight who sought to bar his way, unhorsed a second, and wheeling his snorting charger, wondered at the seeming quiet; then lifting his vizor, looked about him.  And lo! wheresoever his glance fell were men that crawled groaning, or lay very mute and still amid a huddle of fallen horses, and, beyond these again, were other men, a-horse and a-foot, that galloped and ran amain for the shelter of the green.  Sir Pertolepe’s array was scattered up and down the valley—­the battle was lost and won.

Now while he yet sat thus, dazed by the shock of blows and breathing deep of the sweet, cool air, he beheld one rise up from where the battle-wrack lay thickest, an awful figure that limped towards him, holding aloft the broken shaft of an axe.

“Aha, lord Beltane!” cried Ulf, wiping sweat and blood from him, “there be no more—­left to smite, see you.  The which—­is well, for weapon—­ have I none.  This axe was the third this day—­broken, see you!  Alas! there is no weapon I may use.  Saw you Roger, lord, that is my comrade?”

“Nay, good Ulf—­ha, what of him?”

“His horse was slain, lord.  So fought he afoot, since when I saw him not.”

“And where is Sir Benedict and Walkyn—­O see you not Sir Benedict? mine eyes are dazzled with the sun.”

But now Ulf uttered a joyful cry and pointed with his axe-shaft.

“Yonder cometh Roger, lord, and with him the little archer, but whom bring they?”

Very slowly they came, Roger and Prat the archer, up-bearing betwixt them good Sir Hubert of Erdington, his harness hacked and broken, his battered helm a-swing upon its thongs, his eyes a-swoon in the pallor of his face.

Down sprang Beltane and ran to greet him and to catch his nerveless hands: 

“Lord Beltane,” quoth he, faintly, “full oft have I shed my blood for—­ Pentavalon—­to-day I die, messire.  But, as thou didst say—­’tis well to die—­in cause so noble!  My lord, farewell to thee!”

And with the word, even as he stood ’twixt Roger and the archer, the stout old knight was dead.  So they laid Hubert of Erdington very reverently upon that trampled field he had maintained so well.