“Now by sweet Cupid his tender bow!” panted Sir Jocelyn—­“by the cestus of lovely Venus—­aye, by the ox-eyed Juno, I swear ’twas featly done, Sir Smith!”

Quoth Beltane, taking up the fallen sword: 

“’Tis a trick I learned of that great and glorious knight, Sir Benedict of Bourne.”

“Messire,” said Sir Jocelyn, his cheek flushing, “an earl am I of thirty and two quarterings and divers goodly manors:  yet thou art the better man, meseemeth, and as such do I salute thee, and swear myself thy brother-in-arms henceforth—­an ye will.”

Now hereupon Beltane turned, and looking upon the mighty three with kindling eye, beckoned them near.

“Lord Jocelyn,” said he, “behold here my trusty comrades, valiant men all:—­this, my faithful Roger, surnamed the Black:  This, Giles Brabblecombe, who shooteth as ne’er did archer yet:  and here, Walkyn—­ who hath known overmuch of sorrow and bitter wrong.  Fain would we take thee for our comrade, Lord Jocelyn, for God knoweth Pentavalon hath need of true men these days, yet first, know this—­that I, and these my three good comrades do stand pledged to the cause of the weak and woefully oppressed within this sorrowful Duchy; to smite evil, nor stay till we be dead, or Black Ivo driven hence.”

“Ivo?—­Ivo?” stammered Sir Jocelyn, in blank amaze, “’tis madness!”

“Thus,” said Beltane, “is our cause, perchance, a little desperate, and he who companies with us must company with Death betimes.”  “To defy Black Ivo—­ha, here is madness so mad as pleaseth me right well!  A rebellion, forsooth!  How many do ye muster?”

Answered Beltane: 

“Thou seest—­we be four—­”

“Four!” cried Sir Jocelyn, “Four!”

“But Sir Benedict lieth within Thrasfordham Keep, and God is in heaven, messire.”

“Aye, but heaven is far, methinks, and Duke Ivo is near, and hath an arm long and merciless.  Art so weary of life, Sir Smith?”

“Nay,” answered Beltane, “but to what end hath man life, save to spend it for the good of his fellows?”

“Art mad!” sighed Sir Jocelyn, “art surely mad!  Heigho!—­some day, mayhap, it shall be written how one Jocelyn Alain, a gentle, love-lorn knight, singing his woes within the greenwood, did meet four lovely madmen and straight fell mad likewise.  So here, upon my sword, do I swear to take thee for my brother-in-arms, and these thy comrades for my comrades, and to spend my life, henceforth, to the good of my fellows!”

So saying, Sir Jocelyn smiled his quick bright smile and reached out his hand to my Beltane, and there, leaning upon their swords, their mailed fingers clasped and wrung each other.  Thereafter he turned upon the three, but even as he did so, Walkyn uttered a fierce cry, and whirling about with axe aloft, sprang into the green, whence of a sudden rose a babel of voices, and the sound of fierce blows and, thereafter, the noise of pursuit.  A flicker of steel amid the green—­a score of fierce faces all about him, and Beltane was seized from behind, borne struggling to his knees, to his face, battered by unseen weapons, dragged at by unseen hands, choked, half-stunned, his arms twisted and bound by galling thongs.  Now, as he lay thus, helpless, a mailed foot spurned him fiercely and looking up, half-swooning, he beheld Sir Pertolepe smiling down at him.