"Ah, Beltane--these be fresh men on fresh horses," cried Sir Benedict, "but hey--body o' me--all's not lost yet--malediction, no! And 'tis scarce half a mile to the gates. Ha--yonder rides lusty Hacon to stay their rush--in upon them. Beltane--Ho, Pentavalon!"
Shouting thus, Sir Benedict plunged headlong into the raging fury of the battle; but, as Beltane spurred in after him, his weary charger, smitten by an arrow, reared up, screaming, yet ere he fell, Beltane, kicking free of the stirrups, rolled clear; a mighty hand plucked him to his feet and Ulf, roaring in his ear, pointed with his dripping axe. And, looking whither he pointed, Beltane beheld Sir Benedict borne down beneath a press of knights, but as he lay, pinned beneath his squealing charger, Beltane leapt and bestrode him, sword in hand.
"Roger!" he shouted, "Ulf--Walkyn--to me!"
All about him was a swaying trample of horses and men, an iron ring that hemmed him in, blows dinted his long shield, they rang upon his helmet, they battered his triple mail, they split his shield in sunder; and 'neath this hail of blows Beltane staggered, thrice he was smitten to his knees and thrice he arose, and ever his long blade whirled and darted.
"Yield thee, sir knight--yield thee!" was the cry.
"Ho, Roger!" he shouted hoarsely, "Ulf--Walkyn, to me!"
An axe bit through his great helm, a sword bent against his stout mail, a knight spurred in upon him, blade levelled to thrust again, but Beltane's deadly point darted upward and the snorting charger plunged away--riderless.
But now, as he fought on with failing arm, came a joyous roar on his right where Ulf smote direly with bloody axe, upon his left hand a broad-sword flickered where Roger fought silent and grim, beyond him again, Walkyn's long arms rose and fell as he whirled his axe, and hard by Tall Orson plied goring pike. So fought these mighty four until the press thinned out and they had cleared them a space amid the battle, the while Beltane leaned him, spent and panting, upon his reeking sword.
Now, as he stood thus, from a tangle of the fallen near by a bent and battered helm was lifted and Sir Benedict spake, faint and short of breath: "'Twas nobly done--sweet lad! 'Tis enough, methinks--there be few of us left, I fear me, so--get thee hence--with such as be alive--hence, Beltane, for--thy sweet mother's sake. Nay, heed not--old Benedict, I did my best and--'tis a fitting couch, this--farewell to thee, my Beltane--" So saying, Sir Benedict sank weakly to an elbow and from elbow upon his face, and lay there, very still and mute.