“Arise!  Arise!  Ha, Beltane—­Pentavalon!”

Then did Sir Benedict, laughing loud and joyous, haste to re-form his swaying ranks, the bloody gap in his column closed up and Sir Pertolepe’s knights, hemmed in thus, smote and were smitten and but scant few were they that won them free.  And presently, through that red confusion brake Beltane with Roger and Ulf and Walkyn at his heels, and, sword in hand, he sprang and caught the Abbess in a close embrace.

“Mother!” he cried.

“Dear, dear son of mine—­and thou art safe?  Thanks be to God who hath heard the passion of thy mother’s prayers!” Now Sir Benedict turned, and wheeling his horse, left them together and so beheld Sir Hacon near by, who, standing high in his stirrups, pointed to their rear.

“Benedict!” he panted, “ha, look—­Brian is over-borne!  Ho! a rescue—­a rescue to Sir Brian of Hartismere!” So shouting, he drave back into the confusion of the staggering rear-guard with Sir Benedict spurring behind.  But, as Sir Benedict rode, pushing past the files of his halted company, he felt hands that gripped either stirrup and glancing down beheld Ulf the Strong on his one flank and grim Walkyn upon the other.  So came they where the road broadened out and where the battle raged swaying and surging above the form of Sir Brian prostrate in the dust where horsemen and footmen strove together in desperate grapple, where knightly shields, aflare with proud devices, rang ’neath the blows of Beltane’s lusty foresters and Sir Benedict’s veteran pikemen.

Then of a sudden Walkyn shouted fierce and loud, and sprang forward with mighty axe whirled aloft.

“Ha—­Pertolepe, turn!” he roared, “Ho, Bloody Pertolepe—­turn, thou dog!  ’Tis I—­’tis Waldron of Brand!” So cried he, and, plunging into the thick of the affray, smote aside all such as barred his way until he fronted Sir Pertolepe, who, astride a powerful mailed charger, wielded a bloody mace, and who, hearing that hoarse cry, turned and met the shearing axe with blazoned shield—­and behold! the gorgeous shield was split in twain; but even so, he smote in turn and mighty Walkyn was beaten to his knee.  Forth sprang Ulf, swift and eager, but Walkyn, bounding up, shouldered him aside—­his axe whirled and fell once, and Sir Pertolepe’s mace was dashed from his loosened hold—­whirled and fell again, and Sir Pertolepe’s great casque was beaten from his head and all men might see the ghastly, jagged cross that scarred his brow beneath his fiery hair—­whirled again, but, ere it could fall, knights and esquires mounted and afoot, had burst ’twixt Walkyn and their reeling lord, and Walkyn was dashed aside, shouting, cursing, foaming with rage, what time Sir Pertolepe was borne out of the fight.

But the rear-guard was saved, and, with a hedge of bristling pikes behind, Sir Benedict’s sore-battered company marched on along the forest-road and breathed again, the while their pursuers, staggered in their onset, paused to re-form ere they thundered down upon that devoted rear-guard once more.  But Sir Benedict was there, loud-voiced and cheery still despite fatigue, and Sir Hacon was there, his wonted gloom forgotten quite, and Beltane was there, equipped with shield and vizored war-helm and astride a noble horse, and there, too, was Roger, grim and silent, and fierce Ulf, and Walkyn in black and evil temper; quoth he: