“Ha!” cried he, pointing to Beltane, “look ye, Cuthbert, Rollo—­see ye not ’tis him we seek?  Mark ye the size of him, his long sword and belt of silver—­’tis he that came upon us in the green this day and slew our comrade Michael.  Come now, let us hang him forthwith and share his money betwixt us after.”

Then my Beltane sighed amain, and sighing, unsheathed his dagger.

“Alas!” said he, “and must we shed each other’s blood forsooth?  Come then, let us slay each other, and may Christ have pity on our souls!”

Thus saying, he glanced up at the pale splendour of the moon, and round him on the encircling shadows of the woods dense and black beneath the myriad leaves, and so, quick-eyed and poised for action, waited for the rush.

And, even as they came upon him, he sprang aside where the gloom lay blackest, and they being many and the clearing small, they hampered each other and fell into confusion; and, in that moment, Beltane leapt among them and smote, and smote again, now in the moonlight, now in shadow; leaping quick-footed from the thrust of sword and pike, crouching ’neath the heavy swing of axe and gisarm; and ever his terrible blade darted with deadly point or fell with deep-biting edge.  Hands gripped at him from the gloom, arms strove to clasp him, but his dagger-hand was swift and strong.  Pike heads leapt at him and were smitten away, axe and gisarm struck, yet found him not, and ever, as he leapt, he smote.  And now in his ears were cries and groans and other hateful sounds, and to his nostrils came a reek of sweating flesh and the scent of trampled grass; while the moon’s tender light showed faces wild and fierce, that came and went, now here—­now there; it glinted on head-piece and ringed mail, and flashed back from whirling steel—­a round, placid moon that seemed, all at once, to burst asunder and vanish, smitten into nothingness.  He was down—­beaten to his knee, deafened and half blind, but struggling to his feet he staggered out from the friendly shadow of the trees, out into the open.  A sword, hard-driven, bent and snapped short upon his triple mail, the blow of a gisarm half stunned him, a goring pike-thrust drove him reeling back, yet, ringed in by death, he thrust and smote with failing arm.  Axe and pike, sword and gisarm hedged him in nearer and nearer, his sword grew suddenly heavy and beyond his strength to wield, but stumbling, slipping, dazed and with eyes a-swim, he raised the great blade aloft, and lifting drooping head, cried aloud the battle-cry of his house—­ high and clear it rang above the din: 

“Arise!  Arise!  I will arise!”

And even in that moment came one in answer to the cry, one that leapt to his right hand, a wild man and hairy who plied a gleaming axe and, ’twixt each stroke, seemed, from hairy throat, to echo back the cry: 

“Arise!  Arise!”

And now upon his left was Black Roger, fierce-eyed behind his buckler.  Thereafter a voice hailed them as from far away, a sweet, deep voice, cheery and familiar as one heard aforetime in a dream, and betwixt every sentence came the twang of swift-drawn bow-string.