"'Tis fair, Brian, 'tis fair, God be thanked!" sighed Sir Benedict, eyeing his reeking blade, "though I missed my thrust 'neath yon gentle knight's gorget—"
"Yet shore clean through his helm, my lord!" quoth young Walter the esquire.
"Why truly, 'tis a good blade, this of mine," said Sir Benedict, and sighed again.
"Art doleful, Benedict?" questioned Sir Brian, "'tis not like thee when steel is ringing, man."
"In very sooth, Brian, I hanker for knowledge of our Beltane—ha, Walter!" he cried suddenly, "lower thy vizor, boy—down with it, I say!"
"Nay, dear my lord, fain would I breathe the sweet, cool air—but a moment and—"
The young esquire rose up stiffly in his stirrups, threw up gauntleted hands and swaying from the high saddle, pitched down crashing into the dust.
"Alas! there endeth my poor Walter!" sighed Sir Benedict.
"Aye, a shaft between the eyes, poor lad! A curse on these unseen archers!" quoth Sir Brian, beckoning a pikeman to lead forward the riderless horse. "Ha—look yonder, Benedict—we are beset in flank, and by dismounted knights from the underwood. See, as I live 'tis the nuns they make for!"
Nothing saying, Sir Benedict spurred forward beside his hard-pressed company; in the midst of the column was dire tumult and shouting, where, from the dense woods upon their left a body of knights sheathed in steel from head to foot were cutting their way toward the lady Abbess, who, conspicuous in her white habit, was soothing her frightened palfrey. All about her a shouting, reeling press of Sir Benedict's light-armed footmen were giving back and back before the swing of ponderous axe and mace and sword, were smitten down and trampled 'neath those resistless, steel-clad ranks.