Once more they circled heedfully, for Beltane had grown more wary: thrice he sought a certain hold and thrice Black Roger foiled him, ere, sudden and grim, he leapt and closed; and breast to breast they strove fiercely, mighty arms straining and tight-clenched, writhing, swaying, reeling, in fast-locked, desperate grapple. Now to Roger's strength and quickness Beltane opposed craft and cunning, but wily Roger met guile with guile nor was to be allured to slack or change his gripe. Therefore of a sudden Beltane put forth his strength, and wrestled mightily, seeking to break or weaken Roger's deadly hold. But Roger's iron arms gripped and held him fast, crushed him, checked him.
"Aha! master," panted Roger, "now I have thee!" and therewith heaved right lustily, felt Beltane yield and stagger, slacked his grip for the final hold, and, in that moment, his arms were burst asunder, he was whirled up, kicking, 'twixt earth and heaven, laid gently upon the sward and, sitting up, found Beltane lying breathless beside him.
"'Twas a trick, Roger!" he panted, "I beat thee—but by an artifice—"
"Yet beaten I am, master," quoth Roger, vastly rueful.
"And art mightier than I thought thee, Roger."
"Master, I have wrestled oft with Gefroi that was the Duke's wrestler."
"Then art a better man than he, meseemeth," quoth Beltane.
"Yet thou hast beaten me, master!"
"So within the hour we will begone to our duty, Roger!"
"Whither, lord?"