And now at last—up sprang Beltane, his mittened hand aloft.
"Arise!" he cried, "Arise and smite for Pentavalon!" And from the gloom behind him a hoarse roar went up: "Arise! Arise—Pentavalon!" Then, while yet the war-cry thundered in the air, they swept down on that disordered press, and the bailey rang and echoed with the fell sounds of a close-locked, reeling battle; a hateful din of hoarse shouting, of shrieks and cries and clashing steel.
Axe and spear, sword and pike and gisarm smote and thrust and swayed; stumbling feet spurned and trampled yielding forms that writhed, groaning, beneath the press; faces glared at faces haggard with the dawn, while to and fro, through swirling mist and acrid smoke, the battle rocked and swayed. But now the press thinned out, broke and yielded before Beltane's whirling axe, and turning, he found Roger beside him all a-sweat and direfully besplashed, his mailed breast heaving as he leaned gasping upon a broadsword red from point to hilt.
"Ha, master!" he panted,—"'tis done already—see, they break and fly!"
"On!" cried Beltane, "on—pursue! pursue! after them to the gate!"
With axe and spear, with sword and pike and gisarm they smote the fugitives across the wide space of the outer bailey, under the narrow arch of the gate-house and out upon the drawbridge beyond. But here, of a sudden, the fugitives checked their flight as out from the barbican Walkyn leapt, brandishing his axe, and with the fifty at his back. So there, upon the bridge, the fight raged fiercer than before; men smote and died, until of Sir Pertolepe's garrison there none remained save they that littered that narrow causeway.
"Now by the good Saint Giles—my patron saint," gasped Giles, wiping the sweat from him, "here was a good and sweet affray, tall brother—a very proper fight, pugnus et calcibus—while it lasted—"
"Aye," growled Walkyn, spurning a smitten wretch down into the moat, "'twas ended too soon! Be these all in faith, lord?"
But now upon the air rose shrill cries and piercing screams that seemed to split the dawn.
"O—women!" cried Giles, and forthwith cleansed and sheathed his sword and fell to twirling his beard.