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Behold here Sir Bertrand, that was thy father's seneschal of Pentavalon City. Here, Sir John of Griswold whose sire bare thy father's banner, wherefore Griswold is ashes long since. Here Hubert of Erdington, that was thy father's marshal-of-the-field. Here, Hacon of Trant, that was wont to lead thy father's vanward, and here, Sir Brian of Hartismere, brother to Eric, called the Wry-neck.
Presently, through the populace cometh Sir Brian of Hartismere, equipped in his armour and leaning on the mailed arm of his brother Eric of the wry neck, but perceiving Sir Benedict and Beltane, they turned and came up forthwith. "Eric Brian, what meaneth the tumult?" questioned Sir Benedict, his eye kindling, "are we attacked so soon?"
Time and again they beat back their assailants thus, until spent and short of wind they gave place to three fresh knights. "By Our Lady of Hartismere!" panted Sir Brian, "but thy left arm serves thee well, Benedict!" "'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 "
Now Sir Benedict turned, and wheeling his horse, left them together and so beheld Sir Hacon near by, who, standing high in his stirrups, pointed to their rear. "Benedict!" he panted, "ha, look Brian is over-borne! Ho! a rescue a rescue to Sir Brian of Hartismere!" So shouting, he drave back into the confusion of the staggering rear-guard with Sir Benedict spurring behind.
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