“Ho!” cried he, “’twas a good fight, messire, and he who gave me this was none other than Benedict of Bourne himself—­whom our good Duke doth fondly imagine pent up within Thrasfordham!  O indeed ’twas Sir Benedict, I saw his hawk-face plain ere he closed his vizor, and he fought left-handed.  Moreover, beside him I recognised the leaping dog blazoned on the shield of Hacon of Trant—­Oho, this shall be wondrous news for Duke Ivo, methinks.  But, faith, ’tis wonder how he escaped Sir Rollo, and as for the outlaw Beltane we saw nought of him—­Sir Pertolepe vows he was not of this company—­mayhap Sir Rollo hath him, ’tis so I pray—­so, peradventure I shall see him hang yet!  My grateful thanks, messire, for thy tender care of me.  At home I have a mother that watcheth and prayeth for me—­prithee tell me thy name that she may remember it in her prayers?”

“I am called Beltane the Outlaw, sir knight—­and I charge thee to heed that thy bandage slip not, lest the bleeding start afresh—­fare thee well!” So saying, Beltane turned and went on across the ford what time the young knight, propped upon weak elbow, stared after him wide of eye and mouth.

Forthwith Beltane, setting horn to lip, sounded the rally, and very soon the three hundred crossed the ford and swung off to the left into the green.

Thus, heartened and refreshed by food and rest, they pressed on amain southward through the forest with eyes and ears alert and on the strain; what time grim Sir Benedict, riding with his rearguard, peered through the dust of battle but saw only the threatening column of the foe upon the forest road behind, rank upon rank far as the eye could reach, and the dense green of the adjacent woods on either flank whence unseen arrows whizzed ever and anon to glance from his heavy armour.

“Ha, Benedict!” quoth Sir Brian, “they do know thee, methinks, ’spite thy plain armour—­’tis the third shaft hath struck thee in as many minutes!”

“So needs must I stifle and sweat within closed casque!” Sir Benedict groaned.  Upon his right hand Sir Brian rode and upon his left his chiefest esquire, and oft needs must they wheel their chargers to front the thunderous onset of Red Pertolepe’s fierce van, at the which times Sir Benedict laughed and gibed through his vizor as he thrust and smote left-armed, parrying sword and lance-point right skilfully nevertheless, since shield he bare none.  Time and again they beat back their assailants thus, until spent and short of wind they gave place to three fresh knights.

“By Our Lady of Hartismere!” panted Sir Brian, “but thy left arm serves thee well, Benedict!”

“’Tis fair, Brian, ’tis fair, God be thanked!” sighed Sir Benedict, eyeing his reeking blade, “though I missed my thrust ’neath yon gentle knight’s gorget—­”

“Yet shore clean through his helm, my lord!” quoth young Walter the esquire.

“Why truly, ’tis a good blade, this of mine,” said Sir Benedict, and sighed again.