But now Ulf uttered a joyful cry and pointed with his axe-shaft.
"Yonder cometh Roger, lord, and with him the little archer, but whom bring they?"
Very slowly they came, Roger and Prat the archer, up-bearing betwixt them good Sir Hubert of Erdington, his harness hacked and broken, his battered helm a-swing upon its thongs, his eyes a-swoon in the pallor of his face.
Down sprang Beltane and ran to greet him and to catch his nerveless hands:
"Lord Beltane," quoth he, faintly, "full oft have I shed my blood for— Pentavalon—to-day I die, messire. But, as thou didst say—'tis well to die—in cause so noble! My lord, farewell to thee!"
And with the word, even as he stood 'twixt Roger and the archer, the stout old knight was dead. So they laid Hubert of Erdington very reverently upon that trampled field he had maintained so well.
"A right noble knight, my lord," quoth Prat, shaking gloomy head, "but for him, methinks our pikemen would have broke to their third onset!"
"There is no man of you hath not fought like ten men this day!" said Beltane, leaning on his sword and with head a-droop. "Have we lost many, know ye?"
"A fair good number, master, as was to be expected," quoth Roger, cleansing his sword on a tuft of grass, "Sir John of Griswold fell beside me deep-smitten through the helm."
"And what of Sir Benedict?"