But that rough and tumble on the edge of the wood was no fitting stage for flamboyant feats of arms. Falconer’s men poured out in a black swarm. The fighting was at close quarters, a wild swirl of jerking and grotesque figures, a tangle of men and horses, torches, flying embers, oaths and blows. The fires were kicked out, smothered by the bodies of men who fell on them, and rolled away—cursing. Torches were flung, tossed back again, trampled under foot. There was no knightliness in the game. It was a battle of wild beasts who were in a mad haste to kill. My Lord of Troy’s men had raped and bullied the Forest, and the Forest was taking its vengeance. Mellis’s head was close to Martin’s shoulder, and his arm had slipped about her body. Neither of them spoke. The work up yonder was too grim, too breathless. The fires were scattered; a few torches flared in the grass; the dance of death became a thing of darkness. Then a horse went galloping down past the mere, a dim, hurrying shape. “Who was that?” Martin strained his eyes. A faint radiance was stealing over the grassland, the light of the rising moon. The horse became a gray ghost carrying a man who rode for safety. “Who should it be?” “Fulk de Lisle.” “That devil!” The bloody game under the black shadows of the beeches seemed to be losing its fury. Men were calling to each other in the darkness; there was a kind of whimpering murmur, a vague scattering of voices. Once a man shrieked aloud, and Martin felt Mellis shiver. “It is over. Look, you can see men running. One, two, and another—over there, in the open.” “Is it with us, or against us?” “Troy is beaten. Hear them shouting—our people, ‘Richmond! Richmond!’” “What a night, comrade, what a night!” _Chapter XXXI_ A broad silver radiance spread above the black tops of the beech trees. It was the moon rising behind the wood, throwing long slants of light across the grasslands, and making a glimmer of mystery everywhere. The towering shadow of the beech wood still lay upon the island and the mere, leaving them all black in a world of tremulous white light. Mellis drew aside suddenly, her arms over her bosom, her eyes looking toward the tops of the beech trees. “Martin!” A something in her voice kept him from looking at her. “I must become a man. This adventure has shipwrecked me.” He was most desperately and dearly perplexed. “Is there no cloth anywhere?” She could not help laughing at his immense seriousness. “Have you forgotten? Ah!” The moon seemed to glide suddenly above the beech wood, huge, and yellow, and stealthy. The shadows slipped away from the island; the long grass glimmered like silver wire; the mere shone like a shield. Mellis threw herself in the long grass. “Have you forgotten all our gear in that cellar? If you love me, man—hasten.” “What shall I bring?” “A suit of light armor, and a wadded coat—and—and—things to go under it.”