“Ha, Cuthbert,” quoth he, turning to one who rode at his elbow—­a slender youth who stared with evil eyes and sucked upon his finger, “Aha, by the fiend, ’tis a sweet armful, Sir Squire?”

“Aye, my lord Pertolepe, ’tis rarely shaped and delicately fleshed!” answered the esquire, and so fell to sucking his finger again.

“What, silly wench, will ye defy me still?” cried Sir Pertolepe, jovial of voice, “must ye to the whip in sooth?  Ho, Ralph—­Otho, strip me this stubborn jade—­so!—­Ha! verily Cuthbert, hast shrewd eyes, ’tis a dainty rogue.  Come,” said he smiling down into the girl’s wide, fierce eyes, “save that fair body o’ thine from the lash, now, and speak me where is thy father and brother that I may do justice on them, along with these other dogs, for the foul murder of my foresters yest’re’en; their end shall be swift, look ye, and as for thyself—­shalt find those to comfort thee anon—­speak, wench!”

But now came a woman pale and worn, who threw herself on trembling knees at Sir Pertolepe’s stirrup, and, bowed thus before him in the dust, raised a passionate outcry, supplicating his mercy with bitter tears and clasped hands lifted heavenwards.

“O good my lord Pertolepe,” she wailed, “’twas not my husband, nor son, nor any man of our village wrought this thing; innocent are we, my lord—­”

“O witch!” quoth he, “who bade thee speak?” So saying he drew mail-clad foot from stirrup and kicked her back into the dust.  “Ho, whips!” he called, “lay on, and thereafter will we hang these vermin to their own roof-trees and fire their hovels for a warning.”

But now, even as the struggling maid was dragged forward—­even as Pertolepe, smiling, settled chin on fist to watch the lithe play of her writhing limbs, the willows behind him swayed and parted to a sudden panther-like leap, and a mail-clad arm was about Sir Pertolepe—­a mighty arm that bore him from the saddle and hurled him headlong; and thereafter Sir Pertolepe, half stunned and staring up from the dust, beheld a great blade whose point pricked his naked throat, and, beyond this blade, a mail-clad face, pallid, fierce, grim-lipped, from whose blazing eyes death glared down at him.

“Dog!” panted Beltane.

“Ha!  Cuthbert!” roared Red Pertolepe, writhing ’neath Beltane’s grinding heel, “to me, Cuthbert—­to me!”

But, as the esquire wheeled upon Beltane with sword uplifted, out from the green an arrow whistled, and Cuthbert, shrill-screaming, swayed in his saddle and thudded to earth, while his great war-horse, rearing affrighted, plunged among the men-at-arms, and all was shouting and confusion; while from amid the willows arrows whizzed and flew, ’neath whose cruel barbs horses snorted, stumbling and kicking, or crashed into the dust; and ever the confusion grew.