“Nay, Benedict,” said Sir Hacon, grim-smiling, “my dole is but caution!” So saying, he closed his vizor and rode away to muster his chivalry to meet their new assailants the while Sir Benedict fell to re-forming his scanty ranks of pikemen and archers.  Meantime Beltane, sitting his weary charger, glanced from Sir Pertolepe’s deep array of knights and men-at-arms that thronged and jostled each other in the narrow forest-road to the distant flash and glitter of Duke Ivo’s mighty van-ward, and from these again to the walls of Belsaye.  And as he looked thither he saw the great drawbridge fall, the portcullis raised, and the gates flung wide to admit the fugitives; even at that distance he thought to recognise the Abbess, who paused to turn and gaze towards him, as, last of all, she rode to safety into the city.  Then my Beltane sighed, and, closing his vizor, turned to find Ulf beside him with Roger and Walkyn, who stood to watch the while Sir Benedict rode to and fro, ordering his company for their perilous retreat across the plain.  Swift and silent his war-worn veterans fell to their appointed ranks; his trumpets blew and they began to fall back on Belsaye town.  Grimly silent they marched, and ever Beltane gazed where, near and ever more near, flashed and flickered Duke Ivo’s hard-riding van-ward.

And now from the forest-road Sir Pertolepe’s company marched, and forming in the open, spurred down upon them.

“Stand firm, pikes!” roared Cnut.

“Aim low, archers!” squealed small Prat, and forthwith the battle joined.

The weary rear-guard rocked and swayed beneath the onset, but Prat and his archers shot amain, arrows whistled while pike and gisarm thrust and smote, as, encompassed now on three sides, they fell back and back towards the yawning gates of Belsaye; and ever as he fought, Beltane by times turned to watch where Duke Ivo’s threatening van-ward galloped—­a long line of gleaming shields and levelled lances gay with the glitter of pennon and banderol.

Back and back the rear-guard staggered, hewing and smiting; twice Beltane reeled ’neath unseen blows and with eyes a-swim beheld Roger and Ulf, who fought at either stirrup:  heard of a sudden shrieks and cries and the thunder of galloping hooves; was aware of the flash of bright armour to his left, rank upon rank, where charged Duke Ivo’s van-ward before whose furious onset Sir Benedict’s weary pikemen were hurled back—­their centre swayed, broke, and immediately all was dire uproar and confusion.

“Ah, Beltane—­these be fresh men on fresh horses,” cried Sir Benedict, “but hey—­body o’ me—­all’s not lost yet—­malediction, no!  And ’tis scarce half a mile to the gates.  Ha—­yonder rides lusty Hacon to stay their rush—­in upon them.  Beltane—­Ho, Pentavalon!”

Shouting thus, Sir Benedict plunged headlong into the raging fury of the battle; but, as Beltane spurred in after him, his weary charger, smitten by an arrow, reared up, screaming, yet ere he fell, Beltane, kicking free of the stirrups, rolled clear; a mighty hand plucked him to his feet and Ulf, roaring in his ear, pointed with his dripping axe.  And, looking whither he pointed, Beltane beheld Sir Benedict borne down beneath a press of knights, but as he lay, pinned beneath his squealing charger, Beltane leapt and bestrode him, sword in hand.