So cried the tall white friar, pallid of cheek but dauntless of eye, and ever as he cried, smote he upon door and shutter with his sword, and ever his company grew.

Within the square was Roger, hoa.r.s.e-voiced, with Beltane's battered war-helm on a pike whereto the foresters mustered--hardy and brown-faced men, fitting on bascinet and buckling belt, yet very quiet and orderly. And beside Roger, Ulf the Mighty leaned him upon his axe, and in the ranks despite their bandages stood Orson the Tall and Jenkyn o'

the Ford, even yet in wordy disputation.

Quoth Beltane:

"How many muster ye, Roger?"

"One hundred and nine, master."

"And where is Walkyn--where Giles?"

"With Sir Benedict, hard by the gate, master. My lord, come take thy helm--come take it, master, 'twill be a close and bitter fight--and thou art no longer thine own man--bethink thee of thy sweet wife, Sir Fidelis, master!"

So Beltane did on the great casque and even now came Sir Brian beside whom Sir Hacon limped, yet with sword b.l.o.o.d.y.

"Ha, my lord," he cried, "mine eyes do joy to see thee and these goodly fellows--'tis hard and fierce business where Benedict and his pikes do hold the gate--"

"Aye, forsooth," quoth Sir Brian, "they press their attack amain, for one that falleth, two do fill his place."

"Verily, and what fighting man could ask more of any foe? And we be fighting men, praise be to Saint Cuthbert--"

"Aye," quoth Roger, crossing himself, "Saint Cuthbert be our aid this night."

Forthwith Beltane formed his column and with Ulf and Roger beside him marched from the square. By narrow streets went they, 'neath dim-lighted cas.e.m.e.nts where pale faces looked down to pray heaven's aid on them.

So came they where torch and lanthorn smoked and gleamed, by whose fitful light they beheld a barricade, rough and hastily contrived, whence Sir Benedict fought and Walkyn smote, with divers of their stout company and l.u.s.ty fellows from the town. Above, upon the great flanking tower of the gate, was Giles with many archers who plied their whizzing shafts amain where, 'twixt outer and inner wall, the a.s.sailants sought to storm the barricade; but the place was narrow, and moreover, beyond the breach stout Eric, backed by his fierce townsmen, fought in desperate battle: thus, though the besiegers' ranks were constantly swelled by way of the breach, yet in that confined s.p.a.ce their very numbers hampered them, while from sheltered wall and gate-tower Giles and his archers showered them with whistling shafts very fast and furious; so in that narrow place death was rife and in the fitful torch-glare was a sea of tossing steel and faces fierce and wild, and ever the clamour grew, shouts and screams and cries dreadful to be heard.

Now as Beltane stood to watch this, grim-lipped, for it needed but few to man the barricade, so narrow was it, Roger caught his arm and pointed to the housetops above them; and what he saw, others saw also, and a cry went up of wonder and amaze. For, high upon the roof, his mail agleam, his white robe whiter in the torch-glare, stood Friar Martin, while crouched behind him to left and right were many men in ancient and rusty armour, men grey-bearded and white of head, at sight of whom the roar of battle died down from sheer amaze until all men might hear the friar's words:

"Come, ye men of Belsaye!" he cried, "all ye that do love wife or daughter or little child--all ye that would maintain them innocent and pure--follow me!"

As he ended, his sword flashed, and, even as he sprang, so sprang all those behind him--down, down they leapt upon the close-ranked foemen below, so swift, so sudden and unexpected, that ere they could be met with pike or sword the thing was done. And now from that narrow way, dim-lit by lanthorn and torch-glare, there rose a sound more awful to hear than roar of battle, a hoa.r.s.e and vicious sound like to the worrying snarl of many great and fierce hounds.

With ancient swords, with axe and dagger and fierce-rending teeth they fought, those fathers of Belsaye; thick and fast they fell, yet never alone, while ever they raved on, a company of madmen, behind the friar's white robe. Back and back the besiegers reeled before that raging fury--twice the white friar was smitten down yet twice he arose, smiting the fiercer, wherefore, because of his religious habit, the deathly pallor of his sunken cheek and the glare of his eyes, panic came, and all men shrank from the red sweep of his sword.

Then Sir Benedict sounded his horn, and sword in hand leapt over the barricade, and behind him Beltane with Roger and Ulf and Walkyn and their serried pikemen, while Sir Brian and Sir Hacon limped in their rear.

"The breach!" cried Sir Benedict, "seize we now the breach!"

"The breach! The breach!" roared a hundred voices. And now within the gloom steel rasped steel, groping hands seized and griped with merciless fingers; figures, dim-seen, sank smitten, groaning beneath the press. But on they fought, slipping and stumbling, hewing and thrusting, up and up over ruined masonry, over forms that groaned beneath cruel feet--on and ever on until within the narrow breach Beltane's long sword darted and thrust and Ulf's axe whirled and fell, while hard by Walkyn's hoa.r.s.e shout went up in roaring triumph.

So within this narrow gap, where shapeless things stirred and whimpered in the dark, Beltane leaned breathless upon his sword and looked down upon the watch-fires of Duke Ivo's great camp. But, even as he gazed, these fires were blotted out where dark figures mounted fresh to the a.s.sault, and once again sword and axes fell to their dire work.

And ever as he fought Beltane bethought him of her whose pure lips voiced prayers for him, and his mighty arm grew mightier yet, and he smote and thrust untiring, while Walkyn raged upon his left, roaring amain for Red Pertolepe, and Ulf the strong saved his breath to ply his axe the faster.

Now presently as they fought thus, because the breach was grown very slippery, Beltane tripped and fell, but in that instant two l.u.s.ty mailed legs bestrode him, and from the dimness above Roger's voice hailed:

"Get thee back, master--I pray thee get back and take thy rest awhile, my arm is fresh and my steel scarce blooded, so get thee to thy rest-- moreover thou art a notch, lord--another accursed notch from my belt!"

Wherefore Beltane presently crept down from the breach and thus beheld many men who laboured amain beneath Sir Benedict's watchful eye to build a defence work very high and strong where they might command the breach. And as Beltane sat thus, finding himself very spent and weary, cometh Giles beside him.

"Lord," said he, leaning him on his bow, "the attack doth languish, methinks, wherefore I do praise the good G.o.d, for had they won the town--ah, when I do think on--her--she that is so pure and sweet--and Ivo's base soldiery--O sweet Jesu!" and Giles shivered.

"Forsooth, thou didst see fair Belsaye sacked--five years agone, Giles?"

"Aye, G.o.d forgive me master, for I--I--O, G.o.d forgive me!"

"Thou once did show me a goodly chain, I mind me, Giles."

"Aye, but I lost it--I lost it, master!" he cried eagerly, "O verily I did lose it, so did it avail me nothing."

"Moreover, Giles, thou didst with knowing laugh, vaunt that the women of Belsaye town were marvellous fair--and methinks didst speak truly, Giles!"

Now at this Giles bowed his head and turning him about, went heavily upon his way. Then, sighing, Beltane arose and came where stood Sir Benedict who forthwith hailed him blithely:

"Can we but hold them until the dawn, Beltane--and mark me, we can, here is a work shall make us strong 'gainst all attacks," and he pointed to the growing barricade. "But what of our n.o.ble Friar Martin?

But for him, Beltane, but for him and his ancient company we had been hard put to it, lad. Ha, 'neath that white gown is saint and friar, and, what is better--a man! Now G.o.d be praised, yonder cometh the dawn at last! Though forsooth this hath been a sorry wedding-night for thee, dear lad--and for her, sweet maid--"

"Thou dost know then, Benedict?"

"Think ye not good Roger hasted to tell me, knowing thy joy is my joy-- ha! list ye to those blessed joy-bells! glory be to G.o.d, there doth trusty Eric tell us he hath made an end of such as stormed the breach.

But who cometh here? And by this hand, in tears!"

Already in the east was a roseate glory by whose soft light Beltane beheld Tall Orson, who grasped a b.l.o.o.d.y sword in one hand and wiped away his tears with the other. He, perceiving Beltane and Sir Benedict, limped to them forthwith and spake, albeit hoa.r.s.e and brokenly.

"Lords, I do be bid hither to bring ye where he lieth a-dying--the n.o.blest as do be in this world alive--his white robe all bloodied, lords, yet his face do be an angel's face!"

"Ah," sighed Beltane rising, "is it the n.o.ble Friar Martin, Orson?"

"Aye, lord, it do be he--as blessed me wi' his poor hand as do be so faint and feeble."

So saying, Orson brought them to a house beside the wall, wherein, upon a pallet, the white friar lay with Jenkyn beside him, and the white-haired Reeve and many other of the st.u.r.dy townsfolk about him.

Now came Beltane to kneel beside the friar, who, opening swooning eyes, smiled and spake faint-voiced:

"My lord Beltane--n.o.ble son, my work on earth is ended, methinks--so doth G.o.d call me hence--and I do go right gladly. These dying eyes grow dim--but with the deathless eyes of the soul I do see many things most plainly--so, dear and valiant children, hear ye this! The woes of Belsaye are past and done--behold, thy deliverance is at hand! I see one that rideth from the north--and this I give thee for a sign--he is tall, this man, bedight in sable armour and mounted upon a great white horse. And behind him marcheth a mighty following--the woods be bright with the gleam of armour! O ye valiant men--O children of Belsaye that I have loved so well, let now your hearts be glad! O Belsaye town, thy shames and sorrows be pa.s.sed away forever. I see thee through the years a rich city and a happy, thy gates ever open to the woeful and distressed! Rejoice, rejoice--thy sorrows are past and done--even as mine. Ah, list--list ye to those bells! Hear ye not their joyful clamour--hearken!"

But indeed, silence had fallen upon Belsaye, and no sound brake the quiet save the distant hum and stir of conflict upon the broken wall.

Nevertheless the friar's dying face waxed bright with a wondrous happiness.

"O blessed--blessed sound!" he whispered. Of a sudden he rose up from his pillow with radiant eyes uplifted, and stretched up arms in eager welcome.

"Sweet Jesu!" he whispered. Slowly his arms sank, the thin hands strove to fold themselves--fell apart, and, sighing rapturously, Friar Martin sank back upon his pillows like one that is weary, and, with the sigh, was dead. And lo! in that same moment, from tower and belfry near and far, rose a sudden wild and gladsome clamour of bells ringing out peal on peal of rapturous joy, insomuch that those who knelt beside that couch of death lifted bowed heads--eye questioning eye in a wonder beyond words.

And now, all at once was the ring and tramp of mailed feet coming swiftly, and in the doorway stood Roger, his riven mail befouled with battle.

"Lords!" he panted, "rejoice--rejoice! our woes and sorrows be past and done--hark ye to the bells! Our deliverance cometh from the north--you shall see the woods alight with--the gleam of their armour!"