“Roger!” he shouted, “Ulf—­Walkyn—­to me!”

All about him was a swaying trample of horses and men, an iron ring that hemmed him in, blows dinted his long shield, they rang upon his helmet, they battered his triple mail, they split his shield in sunder; and ’neath this hail of blows Beltane staggered, thrice he was smitten to his knees and thrice he arose, and ever his long blade whirled and darted.

“Yield thee, sir knight—­yield thee!” was the cry.

“Ho, Roger!” he shouted hoarsely, “Ulf—­Walkyn, to me!”

An axe bit through his great helm, a sword bent against his stout mail, a knight spurred in upon him, blade levelled to thrust again, but Beltane’s deadly point darted upward and the snorting charger plunged away—­riderless.

But now, as he fought on with failing arm, came a joyous roar on his right where Ulf smote direly with bloody axe, upon his left hand a broad-sword flickered where Roger fought silent and grim, beyond him again, Walkyn’s long arms rose and fell as he whirled his axe, and hard by Tall Orson plied goring pike.  So fought these mighty four until the press thinned out and they had cleared them a space amid the battle, the while Beltane leaned him, spent and panting, upon his reeking sword.

Now, as he stood thus, from a tangle of the fallen near by a bent and battered helm was lifted and Sir Benedict spake, faint and short of breath: 

“’Twas nobly done—­sweet lad!  ’Tis enough, methinks—­there be few of us left, I fear me, so—­get thee hence—­with such as be alive—­hence, Beltane, for—­thy sweet mother’s sake.  Nay, heed not—­old Benedict, I did my best and—­’tis a fitting couch, this—­farewell to thee, my Beltane—­” So saying, Sir Benedict sank weakly to an elbow and from elbow upon his face, and lay there, very still and mute.

“Master—­master!” cried Roger, “we shall win to Belsaye yet, see—­see, Giles hath out-flanked them with his pikes and archers, and—­ha! yonder good Eric o’ the Noose chargeth them home!”

But Beltane leaned him upon his sword very spent and sick, and stared ever upon Sir Benedict’s motionless form, his harness bent and hacked, his proud helm prone in the trampled ling.  Slowly, and with fumbling hands, Beltane sheathed his sword, and stooping, raised Sir Benedict upon his shoulder and strove to bear him out of the fight, but twice he staggered in his going and would have fallen but for Roger’s ready arm.

“Master,” quoth he, “master, let me aid thee with him!” But nothing saying, Beltane stumbled on until they came where stood Ulf holding a riderless horse, on the which he made shift to mount with Roger’s aid; thereafter Ulf lifted Sir Benedict to his hold.

“And, pray you,” said Beltane, slow and blurred of speech, “pray you what of noble Sir Hacon?”

“Alack, lord,” growled Ulf, “yonder is he where they lie so thick, and slain, methinks,—­yet will I bring him off—­”