Thus presently forth from Belsaye rode the Duchess Helen, with Sir Hacon beside her and many of the townsfolk, hasting pale-cheeked and trembling to minister unto the hurt and dying, and many there were that day who sighed out their lives in blessings on her head.

But meantime the battle roared, fierce and furious as ever, where Black Ivo’s stubborn ranks, beset now on three sides, gave back sullenly, fighting step by step.

And amid the blood and dust, in the forefront of that raging tumult, a torn and tattered blue banner rocked and swayed, where Beltane with Giles at his right hand led on his grim foresters, their ranks woefully thinned and with never a horse among them.  But Roger was there, his face besmeared with blood that oozed ’neath his dinted bascinet, and Ulf was there, foul with slaughter, and there was Walkyn fierce and grim, while side by side amid the trampling pikemen behind, Jenkyn and Tall Orson fought.  And presently to Beltane came Walkyn, pointing eagerly to their left.

“Master,” he cried, “yonder flaunteth Pertolepe’s banner, beseech thee let us make thitherward—­”

“Not so,” quoth Beltane, stooping ’neath the swing of a gisarm, “O forget thy selfish vengeance, man, and smite but for Pentavalon this day—­her foes be many enow, God wot!  Ho!” he roared, “they yield! they yield!  Close up pikes—­in, in—­follow me!” Forward leapt he with Roger beside him and the blue banner close behind, and forward leapt those hardy foresters where the enemy’s reeling line strove desperately to stand and re-form.  So waxed the fight closer, fiercer; griping hands fumbled at mailed throats and men, locked in desperate grapple, fell and were lost ’neath the press; but forward went the tattered banner, on and on until, checking, it reeled dizzily, dipped, swayed and vanished; but Roger had seen and sprang in with darting point.

“Up, man,” he panted, covering the prostrate archer with his shield, “up, Giles, an ye can—­we’re close beset—­”

“But we be here, look’ee Roger—­’tis we, look’ee!” cried a voice behind.

“Aye, it do be us!” roared another voice, and Roger’s assailants were borne back by a line of vicious-thrusting pikes.

“Art hurt, Giles?”

“Nay,” quoth the archer, getting to unsteady legs, “but they’ve spoiled me Genevra’s veil, methinks—­and our flag is something smirched, but, as for me, I’ll sing ye many a song yet!”

“Then here’s twice I’ve saved thee, Giles, so art two accursed notches from my—­”

A mace beat Roger to his knees, but, ere his assailant could strike again, Giles’s broadsword rose and fell.

“So are we quits, good Roger!” he cried, “Ha, see—­they break!  On, pikes, on!  Bows and bills, sa-ha!”

Up rose the dust, forward swept the battle as Black Ivo’s hosts gave back before the might of Mortain; forward the blue banner reeled and staggered where fought Beltane fierce and untiring, his long shield hacked and dinted, his white plumes shorn away, while ever his hardy foresters smote and thrust on flank and rear.  Twice Black Roger fell and twice Giles leapt ’twixt him and death, and perceiving his haggard eyes and the pallor of his grimed and bloody cheek, roared at him in fierce anxiety: