What boots it to chronicle the scene that travelled as a forest fire in the track of Sir Simon’s chivalry? The iron hand of the King closed upon the wrecked victims in the valley. Knight and noble trampled the peasantry; rapine and lust were put to the sword. The Blatant Beast was slain by the spear of Romance. The boor and the demagogue were trodden as straw before the threshing-floor of vengeance. The fields were a shroud of scarlet; Tamar ran like wine; thorn and bramble were fruited red with blood. On the heights the tall pines waved over the splendid masque of death. It was late in the day when Morolt and his hillsmen, with certain of Sir Simon’s knights, forced their way through the wreckage of the fight, to the hillock where stood the banner of the Saint. South, east, and west the rout bubbled into the twilight, a riot of slaughter seething to the distant woods. About Yeoland’s banner had gathered the last of the Forest brotherhood, grey wolves red to the throat with battle. Sullen and indomitable, they had gathered in a dusky knot of steel as the day sped into the kindling west. Even Morolt’s fierce followers stood still, like hounds that had brought the boar to bay. Simon of Imbrecour spurred out before the spears, lifted a shattered sword, and called on Fulviac by name. "Traitor, we challenge ye." A burly figure in harness of a reddish hue towered up beneath the fringe of the banner of the Saint. He carried an axe slanted over his shoulder, as he stood half a head above the tallest of his men. As Sir Simon challenged him, he lifted his salade, and bared his face to the war dogs who hemmed him in. "Black Leopard of the West, we meet again." The Lord of Imbrecour peered at him keenly from under his vizor. "Come, sirs, and end it," quoth the man in red, "buffet for buffet, and sword to sword. I fling ye a gauge to death and the devil. Come, sirs, let us end it; I bide my time." Morolt sprang forward with sword aloft. "Traitor and rebel, I have seen your face before." Fulviac laughed, a brave burst of scorn. He tossed his axe to them, and spread his arms. "Ha, Morolt, I have foined with ye of old. Saints and martyrs, have I avenged myself upon the lap-dogs of the court! Here will we fight our last battle. Bury me, sirs, as Fulk of Argentin, the King’s brother, whom men thought dead these seven years." A sudden silence hovered above that remnant of a beaten host. The red banner drooped, hung down about its staff. Morolt, uttering a strange cry, smote his bosom with his iron hand. Old Simon crossed himself, turned back and rode thence slowly from the field. Morolt’s voice, gruff and husky, sounded the charge. When he and his war dogs had made an end, they took Fulviac’s head and bore it wrapped in Yeoland’s banner to the King. XLIII