“Fall out, Roger, fall out and rest ye, man!”

“Not whiles I can stand, archer!”

“Art a fool, Roger.”

“Belike I am, Giles—­”

“And therefore do I love thee, Rogerkin!  Ha, bear up man, yonder is water—­a muddy brook—­”

“O blessed Saint Cuthbert!” panted Roger.

Now before them was a water-brook and beyond this brook Black Ivo’s harassed columns made a fierce and desperate rally what time they strove to re-form their hard-pressed ranks; but from Duke Beltane’s midmost battle the trumpets brayed fierce and loud, whereat from a thousand parched throats a hoarse cry rose, and chivalry and foot, the men of Mortain charged with levelled lance, with goring pike, with whirling axe and sword, and over and through and beyond the brook the battle raged, sweeping ever southwards.

Presently before them the ground sloped sharply down, and while Beltane shouted warning to those behind, his voice was drowned in sudden trumpet-blast, and glancing to his left, he beheld at last all those knights and men-at-arms who had ridden with his father in their reserve all day—­a glittering column, rank on rank, at whose head, his sable armour agleam, his great, white charger leaping ’neath the spur, Duke Beltane rode.  Swift and sure the column wheeled and with lances couched thundered down upon Black Ivo’s reeling flank.

A crash, a sudden roaring clamour, and where had marched Black Ivo’s reserve of archers and pikemen was nought but a scattered rout.  But on rode Duke Beltane, his lion banner a-flutter, in and through the enemy’s staggering columns, and ever as he charged thus upon their left, so charged Sir Jocelyn upon their right.  Then Beltane leaned him on his sword, and looking down upon the battle, bowed his head.

“Now praise be to God and his holy saints!” quoth he, “yonder is victory at last!”

“Aye, master,” said Roger hoarsely, “and yonder as the dust clears you shall see the walls and towers of Pentavalon City!”

“And lord—­lord,” cried Walkyn, “yonder—­in their rear—­you shall see Red Pertolepe’s accursed Raven banner!  Why tarry we here, lord?  See, their ranks break everywhere—­’twill be hot-foot now for the city gates—­ha, let us on, master!”

“Aye, verily,” quoth Beltane, looking westward, “it groweth to sunset and the city is yet to storm.  To your ranks, there—­forward!”

Now as they advanced, Beltane beheld at last where, high above embattled walls and towers, rose Pentavalon’s mighty keep wherein he had been born; and, remembering his proud and gentle mother, he drooped his head and grieved; and bethinking him of his proud and gentle Helen, he took fresh grip upon his sword, and lengthening his stride, looked where Black Ivo’s broken columns, weary with battle, grim with blood and wounds, already began to ride ’neath the city’s frowning gateway, while hard upon their straggling rearguard Duke Beltane’s lion banner fluttered.