In a while Beltane came forth into the courtyard and beheld Sir Jocelyn mustering their knightly prisoners in the ward below, for, with Black Ivo’s death, all resistance was ended.  And now the trumpets blared, rallying their various companies, but Beltane abode very full of sorrowful thoughts.  To him presently cometh Giles yet grasping the blue standard befouled with dust and blood, the which he laid reverently at Beltane’s feet.

“Lord,” said he, “my trust is ended.  See, yonder standeth our company of foresters!” and he pointed where a single rank of grimed and weary men lay upon the hard flag-stones or leaned on their battered weapons.

“Giles—­O Giles, is this all?”

“Aye, lord, we muster but seventy and one all told, and of these Tall Orson lieth dead yonder in Jenkyn’s arms, and Roger—­poor Roger is a-dying, methinks—­and Ulf and Walkyn are not.”

But even as he spake he turned and started, for, from the ward below a hunting horn brayed feebly.

“’Tis our forester’s rally, master!” quoth he, “and see—­Jesu, what men are these?” For into the courtyard, followed by many who gaped and stared in wonderment, six men staggered, men hideously stained and besplashed from head to foot, and foremost came two.  And Walkyn was one and Ulf the Strong the other.

Now as he came Walkyn stared in strange, wild fashion, and choked often in his breathing, and his mailed feet dragged feebly, insomuch that he would have fallen but for Ulf’s mighty arm.  Being come where Beltane stood with Sir Benedict and many other wondering knights and nobles, Walkyn halted and strove to speak but choked again instead.  In one hand bare he his great axe, and in the other a torn and stained war-cloak.

“Lord,” quoth he in sobbing breaths, “a good day for thee—­this—­lord Duke—­a good day for Pentavalon—­a joyous day—­blessed day for me—­ You’ll mind they slew mother and father and sister, lord—­brother and wife and child?  Empty-hearted was I and desolate therefore, but—­to-day, ha, to-day I die also, methinks.  So, an ye will, lord Duke—­keep thou mine axe in memory—­of Walkyn—­’tis a goodly axe—­hath served me well today—­behold!”

Now as he spake he loosed a corner of the war-cloak, and from its grimed and ghastly folds there rolled forth into the red light of the cleanly sun a thing that trundled softly across the pavement and stopping, shewed a pallid face crowned with red hair, ’neath which upon the brow, betwixt the staring eyes, was a jagged scar like to a cross.

Now while all men stared upon this direful thing, holding their breaths, Walkyn laughed loud and high, and breaking from Ulf’s clasp, staggered to where it lay and pointed thereto with shaking finger.

“Behold!” he cried, “behold the head of Bloody Pertolepe!” Therewith he laughed, and strove to kick it with feeble foot—­but staggered instead, and, loosing his axe, stretched wide his long arms and fell, face downward.