and silent, while the cheery voices swelled near and more near, till, all at once, the song died to a hum of amaze that rose to a warning shout that was drowned in the blare of a piercing trumpet blast.  Whereat down swept glittering lance-point, forward leaned shining bascinet, and the first rank of Sir Pertolepe’s riders, striking spurs, thundered upon them down the hill; came thereafter the shock of meeting ranks, with shouts and cries that grew to a muffled roar.  Up rose the dust, an eddying cloud wherein steel flickered and dim forms strove, horse to horse and man to man, while Sir Pertolepe, sitting his great white charger, nursed his big chin and, smiling, waited his chance.  Presently, from the eddying cloud staggered the broken remnant of Sir Gilles’ van-ward, whereon, laughing fierce and loud, Sir Pertolepe rose in his stirrups with Beltane’s long sword lifted high, his trumpets brayed the charge, and down the hill thundered Sir Pertolepe and all his array; and the road near by was deserted, save for the prisoners and the four archers who stood together, their faces set down-hill, where the dust rose denser and denser, and the roar of the conflict fierce and loud.

But now, above the din and tumult of the fight below, shrill and high rose the notes of a horn winded from the woods in the east, that was answered—­like an echo, out of the woods in the west; and, down the banks to right and left, behold Sir Pertolepe’s archers came leaping and tumbling, pursued by a hissing arrow shower.  Whereat up sprang Giles, despite his bonds, shouting amain: 

“O, Walkyn o’ the Long Legs—­a rescue!  To us!  Arise, I will arise!” Now while he shouted thus, came one of the four archers, and Giles was smitten to his knees; but, as the archer whirled up his quarter-staff to strike again, an arrow took him full in the throat, and pitching upon his face, he lay awhile, coughing, in the dust.

Now as his comrades yet stared upon this man so suddenly dead, down from the bank above leapt one who bore a glittering axe, with divers wild and ragged fellows at his heels; came a sound of shouting and blows hard smitten, a rush of feet and, thereafter, silence, save for the din of battle afar.  But, upon the silence, loud and sudden rose a high-pitched quavering laugh, and Giles spake, his voice yet shrill and unsteady.

“’Twas Walkyn—­ha, Saint Giles bless Walkyn’s long legs!  ’Twas Walkyn I saw—­Walkyn hath brought down the outlaws—­the woods be full of them.  Oho!  Sir Pertolepe’s slow fire shall not roast me yet awhile, nor his dogs mumble the carcase, my Rogerkin!”

“Aye,” quoth Roger feebly, “but what of my lord, see how still he lieth!”

“Forsooth,” exclaimed the archer, writhing in his bonds to stare upon Beltane, “forsooth, Roger, he took a dour ding upon his yellow pate, look ye; but for his mail-coif he were a dead man this hour—­”

“He lieth very still,” groaned Roger.

“Yet is he a mighty man and strong, my Rogerkin-never despond, man, for I tell thee—­ha!—­heard ye that outcry?  The outlaws be at work at last, they have Sir Pertolepe out-flanked d’ye see—­now might ye behold what well-sped shafts can do upon a close array—­pretty work-sweet work!  Would I knew where Walkyn lay!”