“Lord, we have saved the life of yon prating archer-fellow, and behold my belt lacketh for one notch, which is well.  So come, let us go our ways, thou and I, for I love not your talkers, and this fellow hath overmuch to say.”

But now, ere Beltane could make reply, came the hairy man—­but behold his rags had given place to fair garments of tanned leather (albeit something small) together with steel cap and shirt of ringed mail, and, about his middle, a broad belt where swung a heavy sword; being come to Beltane he paused leaning upon his axe, and gazed upon him fierce-eyed: 

“Messire,” said he, “who ye are I know not, what ye are I care not, for art quick of foot and mighty of arm, and when ye fight, cry a point of war, a battle-shout I knew aforetime ere they enslaved and made of me a serf—­and thus it is I would follow thee.”

Quoth Beltane, his aching head upon his hand: 

“Whither?”

“To death if needs be, for a man must die soon or late, yet die but once whether it be by the steel, or flame, or rope.  So what matter the way of it, if I may stand with this my axe face to face with Gilles of Brandonmere, or Red Pertolepe of Garthlaxton Keep:  ’twas for this I followed his foresters.”

“Who and whence are you?”

“Walkyn o’ the Dene they call me hereabouts—­though I had another name once—­but ’twas long ago, when I marched, a lad, ’neath the banner of Beltane the Strong!”

“What talk be this?” grunted Black Roger, threatening of mien, “my lord and I be under a vow and must begone, and want no runaway serf crawling at our heels!”

“Ha!” quoth Walkyn, “spake I to thee, hangman?  Forsooth, well do I know thee, Roger the Black:  come ye into the glade yonder, so will I split thy black poll for thee—­thou surly dog!”

Forth leapt Black Roger’s sword, back swung Walkyn’s glittering axe, but Beltane was between, and, as they stood thus came Giles o’ the Bow: 

“Oho!” he laughed, “must ye be at it yet?  Have we not together slain of Sir Pertolepe’s foresters a round score?—­”

“’Twas but nineteen!” growled Roger, frowning at Walkyn.

“So will I make of this hangman the twentieth!” said Walkyn, frowning at Roger.

“’Tis a sweet thought,” laughed the archer, “to it, lads, and slay each other as soon as ye may, and my blessings on ye.  As for us, Sir Paladin, let us away—­’tis true we together might give check to an army, yet, minding Sir Pertolepe’s nineteen foresters, ’twere wiser to his us from Sir Pertolepe’s country for the nonce:  so march, tall brother—­march!”

“Ha!” snarled Walkyn, “fear ye Red Pertolepe yet, bowman?  Well, we want ye not, my lord and I, he hath a sword and I an axe—­they shall suffice us, mayhap, an Pertolepe come.  So his thee hence with the hangman and save thy rogue’s skin.”

“And may ye dangle in a noose yet for a prating do-nothing!” growled Roger.