“Aye, lord!” growled the four.

Then Sir Pertolepe, fondling his great chin, smiled upon Beltane and lifted Beltane’s glittering sword on high, “Advance my banner!” he cried, and rode forward among his men-at-arms.  On went the company, grimly silent now save for the snort of a horse, the champing of curbing bits and the thud of slow trampling hoofs upon the tender grass, as the west flamed to sunset.  Thus in a while they came to a place where the road, narrowing, ran ’twixt high banks clothed in gorse and underbrush; a shadowy road, the which, winding downwards, was lost in a sharp curve.  Here the array was halted, and abode very still and silent, with helm and lance-point winking in the last red rays of sunset.

“O brother,” whispered Giles, “ne’er saw I place sweeter or more apt for ambushment.  Here shall be bloody doings anon, and we—­helpless as babes!  O me, the pity on’t!” But now with blows and gibes the four archers dragged them unto a tall tree that stood beside the way, a tree of mighty girth whose far-flung branches cast a deep gloom.  Within this gloom lay my Beltane, stirring not and speaking no word, being faint and sick with his hurts.  But Giles the archer, sitting beside him, vented by turns bitter curses upon Sir Pertolepe and humble prayers to his patron saint, so fluent and so fast that prayers and curses became strangely blent and mingled, on this wise: 

“May Red Pertolepe be thrice damned with a candle to the blessed Saint Giles that is my comfort and intercessor.  May his bones rot within him with my gold chain to sweet Saint Giles.  May his tongue wither at the roots—­ah, good Saint Giles, save me from the fire.  May he be cursed in life and may the flesh shrivel on his bones and his soul be eternally damned with another candle and fifty gold pieces to the altar of holy Saint Giles—­”

But now hearing Roger groan, the archer paused to admonish him thus: 

“Croak not, Roger, croak not,” quoth he, “think not upon thy vile body —­pray, man, pray—­pray thyself speechless.  Call reverently upon the blessed saints as I do, promise them candles, Roger, promise hard and pray harder lest we perish—­I by fire and thou by Pertolepe’s hounds.  Ill deaths, look you, aye, ’tis a cruel death to be burnt alive, Roger!”

“To be torn by hounds is worse!” growled Roger.

“Nay, my Rogerkin, the fire is slower, methinks—­I have watched good flesh sear and shrivel ere now—­ha! by Saint Giles, ’tis an evil subject; let us rather think upon two others.”

“As what, archer?”

“The long legs of our comrade Walkyn.  Hist! hark ye to that bruit!  Here cometh Gilles of Brandonmere, meseemeth!” And now from the road in front rose the sound of an approaching company, the tramp of weary horses climbing the ascent with the sound of cheery voices upraised in song; and ever the sinking sun glinted redly on helm and lance-point where sat Sir Pertolepe’s mailed riders, grim