"Beltane!" he cried, "praise be to God! One told me thou wert down--art well, sweet lad, and all unharmed? God is merciful!" And he patted Beltane's mailed shoulder, what time blood oozed from his steel gauntlet and his sobbing charger hung weary head and snorted purple foam. "O lad," quoth he, smiling his wry smile, "here was an hour worth living for--though Sir Bertrand is sore hurt and many do lie dead of my company."
"And here," sighed Beltane, "brave Hubert of Erdington--behold!"
"A gallant knight, Beltane! May I so valiantly die when that my time be come. Truly 'twas a sharp debate what time it lasted, there be many that will ride with us no more."
"And thou, my lord?" cried Beltane suddenly, "thy cheek so pale-- thou'rt hurt, Benedict!"
"Nought to matter, lad, save that it is my sword-arm: nay indeed, my Beltane, 'twas but an axe bit through my vanbrace, 'twill heal within the week. But take now my horn and summon ye our scattered company, for I do lack the wind."
Knight and man-at-arms, limping and afoot, on horses weary and blown, they came at the summons--archer and pike-man they came, a blood be-spattered company; many were they that staggered, faint with wounds, and many that sank upon the trampled grass a-swoon with weariness, but in the eyes of each and every was the look of men that triumph.
Cnut was there, his bascinet gone, his fiery hair betousled: Tall Orson was there, leaning on a bent and battered pike, and there his comrade, Jenkyn o' the Ford, with many others that Beltane well remembered and others whose faces he knew not. So formed they their battle-scarred array what time Beltane viewed them with glowing eye and heart swelling within him.
"Master!" cried Tall Orson of a sudden, "O master, us do be clean men and goodly fighters as us did promise thee time 'gone i' the Hollow, master, ye'll mind us as did promise so to be--I and Jenkyn as be my comrade?"
"Aye, master!" cried Jenkyn o' the Ford, "aye, look'ee, we ha' kept our word to thee as we did promise, look'ee master! So now, speak word to us master, look'ee!"
"Ye men!" quoth Beltane, hoarse-voiced, "O my good comrades all, your deeds this day shall speak when we are dust, methinks! Your foes this day did muster three thousand strong, and ye do number scarce a thousand--yet have ye scattered them, for that your cause is just--'tis thus ye shall lift Pentavalon from shame and give to her peace at last!"
Then Tall Orson shook aloft his battered pike and shouted amain, and on the instant, others took up the cry--a hoarse roar that rolled from rank to rank; lance and sword, axe and pike were flourished high in air, and from these men who had marched so grimly silent all the day a great and mighty shout went up: "Arise, Pentavalon! Ha! Beltane--Pentavalon!" Now even as they shouted, upon this thunderous roar there stole another sound, high and clear and very sweet, that rose and swelled upon the air like the voices of quiring angels; and of a sudden the shouting was hushed, as, forth of the tower's gloomy portal the lady Abbess came, tall and fair and saintly in her white habit, her nuns behind her, two and two, their hands clasped, their eyes upraised to heaven, chanting to God a hymn of praise and thanksgiving. Slow paced they thus, the stately Abbess with head low-bended and slim hands clasped upon her silver crucifix until, the chant being ended, she raised her head and beheld straightway Sir Benedict unhelmed and yet astride his great charger. The silver crucifix fell, the slim hands clasped themselves upon her bosom and the eyes of the tall, white Abbess grew suddenly wide and dark: and even as she gazed on him, so gazed Sir Benedict on her.