“A right noble knight, my lord,” quoth Prat, shaking gloomy head, “but for him, methinks our pikemen would have broke to their third onset!”

“There is no man of you hath not fought like ten men this day!” said Beltane, leaning on his sword and with head a-droop.  “Have we lost many, know ye?”

“A fair good number, master, as was to be expected,” quoth Roger, cleansing his sword on a tuft of grass, “Sir John of Griswold fell beside me deep-smitten through the helm.”

“And what of Sir Benedict?”

“See yonder—­yonder he rides, my lord!” cried Prat, “though methinks you scarce shall know him.”  And he pointed where, on spent and weary charger, one rode, a drooping, languid figure, his bright armour bespattered and dim, his dinted casque smitten awry; slowly he rode before his weary company until of a sudden espying Beltane, he uttered a great and glad cry, his drooping shoulders straightened, and he rode forward with mailed arms outstretched.

“Beltane!” he cried, “praise be to God!  One told me thou wert down—­art well, sweet lad, and all unharmed?  God is merciful!” And he patted Beltane’s mailed shoulder, what time blood oozed from his steel gauntlet and his sobbing charger hung weary head and snorted purple foam.  “O lad,” quoth he, smiling his wry smile, “here was an hour worth living for—­though Sir Bertrand is sore hurt and many do lie dead of my company.”

“And here,” sighed Beltane, “brave Hubert of Erdington—­behold!”

“A gallant knight, Beltane!  May I so valiantly die when that my time be come.  Truly ’twas a sharp debate what time it lasted, there be many that will ride with us no more.”

“And thou, my lord?” cried Beltane suddenly, “thy cheek so pale—­ thou’rt hurt, Benedict!”

“Nought to matter, lad, save that it is my sword-arm:  nay indeed, my Beltane, ’twas but an axe bit through my vanbrace, ’twill heal within the week.  But take now my horn and summon ye our scattered company, for I do lack the wind.”

Knight and man-at-arms, limping and afoot, on horses weary and blown, they came at the summons—­archer and pike-man they came, a blood be-spattered company; many were they that staggered, faint with wounds, and many that sank upon the trampled grass a-swoon with weariness, but in the eyes of each and every was the look of men that triumph.

Cnut was there, his bascinet gone, his fiery hair betousled:  Tall Orson was there, leaning on a bent and battered pike, and there his comrade, Jenkyn o’ the Ford, with many others that Beltane well remembered and others whose faces he knew not.  So formed they their battle-scarred array what time Beltane viewed them with glowing eye and heart swelling within him.

“Master!” cried Tall Orson of a sudden, “O master, us do be clean men and goodly fighters as us did promise thee time ‘gone i’ the Hollow, master, ye’ll mind us as did promise so to be—­I and Jenkyn as be my comrade?”