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!"
"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.