"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 bloody.
"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 casements where pale faces looked down to pray heaven's aid on them.