“Here, comrade!” said a voice from the shade of the great tree.

“How—­what do ye there?” cried the archer.

“Wait for Red Pertolepe.”

“Why then, sweet Walkyn, good Walkyn—­come loose us of our bonds that we may wait with thee—­”

“Nay,” growled Walkyn, “ye are the bait.  When the outlaws have slain enough of them, Pertolepe’s men must flee this way:  so will Red Pertolepe stay to take up his prisoners, and so shall I slay him in that moment with this mine axe.  Ha!—­said I not so?  Hark I they break already!  Peace now—­wait and watch.”  So saying, Walkyn crouched behind the tree, axe poised, what time the dust and roar of battle rolled toward them up the hill.  And presently, from out the rolling cloud, riderless horses burst and thundered past, and after them—­a staggering rout, mounted and afoot, spurring and trampling each other ’neath the merciless arrow-shower that smote them from the banks above.  Horse and foot they thundered by until at last, amid a ring of cowering men-at-arms, Sir Pertolepe galloped, his white horse bespattered with blood and foam, his battered helm a-swing upon its thongs; grim-lipped and pale he rode, while his eyes, aflame ’neath scowling brows, swept the road this way and that until, espying Beltane ’neath the tree, he swerved aside in his career and strove to check his followers’ headlong flight.

“Stay,” cried he striking right and left.  “Halt, dogs, and take up the prisoners.  Ha! will ye defy me-rogues, caitiffs!  Fulk!  Raoul!  Denis!  Ho, there!”

But no man might stay that maddened rush, wherefore, swearing a great oath, Sir Pertolepe spurred upon Beltane with Beltane’s sword lifted for the blow.  But, from the shade of the tree a mighty form uprose, and Sir Pertolepe was aware of a hoarse, glad cry, saw the whirling flash of a broad axe and wrenched hard at his bridle; round staggered the white horse, down came the heavy axe, and the great horse, death-smitten, reared up and up, back and back, and crashing over, was lost ’neath the dust of swift-trampling hoofs.

Now presently, Beltane was aware that his bonds cramped him no longer, found Roger’s arm about him, and at his parched lips Roger’s steel head-piece brimming with cool, sweet water; and gulping thirstily, soon felt the numbness lifted from his brain and the mist from his eyes; in so much that he sat up, and gazing about, beheld himself alone with Roger.

Quoth he, looking down at his swollen wrists: 

“Do we go free then, Roger?”

“Aye, master—­though ye had a woundy knock upon the head.”

“And what of Giles?”

“He is away to get him arrows to fill his quiver, and to fill his purse with what he may, for the dead lie thick in the road yonder, and there is much plunder.”

“And Walkyn?”

“Walkyn, master, having slain Sir Pertolepe’s horse yonder, followeth Pertolepe, minded straight to slay him also.”