“Art doleful, Benedict?” questioned Sir Brian, “’tis not like thee when steel is ringing, man.”

“In very sooth, Brian, I hanker for knowledge of our Beltane—­ha, Walter!” he cried suddenly, “lower thy vizor, boy—­down with it, I say!”

“Nay, dear my lord, fain would I breathe the sweet, cool air—­but a moment and—­”

The young esquire rose up stiffly in his stirrups, threw up gauntleted hands and swaying from the high saddle, pitched down crashing into the dust.

“Alas! there endeth my poor Walter!” sighed Sir Benedict.

“Aye, a shaft between the eyes, poor lad!  A curse on these unseen archers!” quoth Sir Brian, beckoning a pikeman to lead forward the riderless horse.  “Ha—­look yonder, Benedict—­we are beset in flank, and by dismounted knights from the underwood.  See, as I live ’tis the nuns they make for!”

Nothing saying, Sir Benedict spurred forward beside his hard-pressed company; in the midst of the column was dire tumult and shouting, where, from the dense woods upon their left a body of knights sheathed in steel from head to foot were cutting their way toward the lady Abbess, who, conspicuous in her white habit, was soothing her frightened palfrey.  All about her a shouting, reeling press of Sir Benedict’s light-armed footmen were giving back and back before the swing of ponderous axe and mace and sword, were smitten down and trampled ’neath those resistless, steel-clad ranks.

“Ha! the Abbess!” they cried, “yield us the lady Abbess!” Into this close and desperate affray Sir Benedict spurred, striving with voice and hand to re-form his broken ranks, hewing him a path by dint of sword until he had won beside the Abbess.

“Yolande!” he shouted above the din, “keep thou beside me close—­close, Yolande—­stoop—­ah, stoop thy head that I may cover thee—­the debate waxeth a little sharp hereabouts!” Even as he spake he reeled ’neath the blow of a heavy mace, steadied himself, cut down his smiter, and thrust and smote amain until the grim, fierce-shouting ranks gave back before the sweep of that long sword.

“See, Yolande!” he panted, hard-breathing, “see yonder where my good Hacon spurs in to our relief—­ha, mighty lance!”

“Ah, Benedict,” cried the Abbess, pale-lipped but calm of eye, “of what avail?  ’Tis me they seek, though wherefore I know not, so—­dear Benedict—­let me go.  Indeed, indeed ’tis best, so shall these fair lives be saved—­ah, sweet Jesu, ’tis horrible!  See—­O see how fast they fall and die about us!  I must go—­I will go!  My lord, let me pass—­ loose my bridle—­”

A hunting horn fiercely winded among the woods hard by!  A confused roar of harsh voices and forth of the green four terrible figures sprang, two that smote with long-shafted axes and two that plied ponderous broadswords; and behind these men were others, lean and brown-faced—­ the very woods seemed alive with them.  And from these fierce ranks a mighty shout rent the air: