But now Sir Pertolepe, wriggling beneath Beltane’s iron foot had unsheathed his dagger, yet, ere he could stab, down upon his red pate crashed the heavy pommel of Beltane’s sword and Sir Pertolepe, sinking backward, lay out-stretched in the dust very silent and very still.  Then Beltane sheathed his sword and, stooping, caught Sir Pertolepe by the belt and dragged him into the shade of the willows, and being come to the stream, threw his captive down thereby and fell to splashing his bruised face with the cool water.  And now, above the shouts and the trampling of hoofs upon the road, came the clash of steel on steel and the harsh roar of Walkyn and Black Roger as they plied axe and sword—­ “Arise!  Ha, arise!” Then, as Beltane glanced up, the leaves near by were dashed aside and Giles came bounding through, his gay feather shorn away, his escalloped cape wrenched and torn, his broadsword a-swing in his hand.

“Ho, tall brother—­a sweet affray!” he panted, “the fools give back already:  they cry that Pertolepe is slain and the woods full of outlaws; they be falling back from the village—­had I but a few shafts in my quiver, now—­” but here, beholding the face of Beltane’s captive, Giles let fall his sword, staring round-eyed.

“Holy St. Giles!” he gasped, “’tis the Red Pertolepe!” and so stood agape, what time a trumpet brayed a fitful blast from the road and was answered afar.  Thereafter came Roger, stooping as he ran, and shouting: 

“Archers!  Archers!—­run, lord!”

But Beltane stirred not, only he dashed the water in Sir Pertolepe’s twitching face, wherefore came Roger and caught him by the arm, pleading: 

“Master, O master!” he panted, “the forest is a-throng with lances, and there be archers also—­let us make the woods ere we are beset!”

But Beltane, seeing the captive stir, shook off Black Roger’s grasp; but now, one laughed, and Walkyn towered above him, white teeth agleam, who, staring down at Sir Pertolepe, whirled up his bloody axe to smite.

“Fool!” cried Beltane, and threw up his hand to stay the blow, and in that moment Sir Pertolepe oped his eyes.

“’Tis Pertolepe!” panted Walkyn, “’tis he that slew wife and child:  so now will I slay him, since we, in this hour, must die!”

“Not so,” quoth Beltane, “stand back—­obey me—­back, I say!” So, muttering, Walkyn lowered his axe, while Beltane, drawing his dagger, stooped above Sir Pertolepe and spake, swift and low in his ear, and with dagger at his throat.  And, in a while, Beltane rose and Sir Pertolepe also, and side by side they stepped forth of the leaves out into the road, where, on the outskirts of the village, pikemen and men-at-arms, archer and knight, were halted in a surging throng, while above the jostling confusion rose the hoarse babel of their voices.  But of a sudden the clamour died to silence, and thereafter from a hundred throats a shout went up: 

“A Pertolepe!  ’Tis Sir Pertolepe!”