“Ha—­’tis ever so, his life within my very grasp, yet doth he escape me!  But one more blow and the Red Pertolepe had been in hell—­”

“Yet, forsooth, didst save our rear-guard, comrade!” said Ulf.

“Aye—­and what o’ that?  ’Twas Pertolepe’s foul life I sought—­”

“And there,” quoth Beltane, “there spake Vengeance, and vengeance is ever a foul thing and very selfish!” Now hereupon Walkyn’s scowl deepened, and, falling further to the rear, he spake no more.

“Beltane, dear my lad,” said Sir Benedict as they rode together, “hast told me nought of thy doings last night—­what of Sir Rollo?”

“Nay, Benedict, ask me not yet, only rest ye assured Sir Rollo shall not trouble us this side Belsaye.  But pray, how doth our brave Sir Brian?”

“Well enough, Beltane; he lieth in a litter, being tended by thy noble lady mother.  A small lance-thrust ’neath the gorget, see’st thou, ’twill be healed—­Ha, they charge us again—­stand firm, pikes!” So shouting, Sir Benedict wheeled his horse and Beltane with him, and once again the road echoed to the din of battle.

Thus all day long they fought their way south along the forest-road, as, time and again, Sir Pertolepe’s heavy chivalry thundered down upon them, to check and break before that hedge of deadly pikes.  So marched this valiant rear-guard, parched with thirst, choked with dust, grim with blood and wounds, until, as the sun sank westwards, the woods thinned away and they beheld at last, glad-eyed and joyful, the walls and towers of fair Belsaye town.  Now just beyond the edge of the woods, Sir Benedict halted his shrunken column, his dusty pikemen drawn up across the narrow road with archers behind supported by his cavalry to hold Sir Pertolepe’s powers in check amid the woods what time the nuns with the spent and wounded hasted on towards the city.

Hereupon Beltane raised his vizor and setting horn to lip, sounded the rally.  And lo! from the city a glad and mighty shout went up, the while above the square and frowning keep a great standard arose and flapping out upon the soft air, discovered a red lion on a white field.

“Aha, Beltane!” quoth Sir Benedict, “yon is a rare-sweet sight—­behold thy father’s Lion banner that hath not felt the breeze this many a year—­”

“Aye, lords,” growled Walkyn, “and yonder cometh yet another lion—­a black lion on red!” and he pointed where, far to their left, a red standard flaunted above the distant glitter of a wide-flung battle line.

“Hast good eyes, Walkyn!” said Sir Benedict, peering ’neath his hand toward the advancing host, “aye, verily—­’tis Ivo himself.  Sir Pertolepe must have warned him of our coming.”

“So are we like to be crushed ’twixt hammer and anvil,” quoth Sir Hacon, tightening the lacing of his battered casque.

“So will I give thee charge of our knights and men-at-arms—­what is left of them, alas!—­to meet Black Ivo’s banner, my doleful Hacon!” spake Sir Benedict.