The actual trial of strength took place on bare moorland some ten miles from the castle of the Giffards. From the battlements it was possible to see in a very distant way what went on. Lady Philippa, Eleanor and Roger stood together at a high window, and saw morions glitter in the sun, lances ranged like an orderly mass of reeds, and at last the King's banner dipping and lifting over the uneven ground as his reenforcements rode up. Then far through the fine cold air came trumpet-calls, and the enemy emerged from their cover in the woods. In comparison with the disciplined and controlled forces of the English, they seemed a motley rabble. Moreover, the Norman crossbowmen and the English archers with their long bows had the pike-bearing Welsh at a terrible disadvantage. This Roger explained, hopping with excitement, for he was full of information gathered from Ralph the bowyer, his firm friend. The battle was a brief one. Before sunset Sir Walter Giffard and his men came riding home to tell of a speedy and easy victory. “'Tis all the better,” said the knight, as Lady Philippa helped him remove his armor. “There is no use in chasing these half-wild chiefs through their forests. Some day perhaps they will come to us of their own accord. They know now that it is hopeless to attempt to beat us back from our own frontier, and I think they will not readily try it again. There is wisdom in Hugh of Avalon. As he says,--the truest service ever comes by the road of the wild swan.” THE LANCES Straight stood we with our brethren in the wood-- High-crested, strong, and proud, Fearing no fury of the threatening storm-- Our chanting voices loud Rose to the mighty bourdon of the gale, The yelling tempest or the raging sea, Chanting and prophesying of great days In centuries yet to be. The falcon flying down the windy sky, The swallow poised and darting in the sun, The guillemot beating seaward through the mist-- We knew them every one, And heard from them of trumpets wakening war, Of steadfast beams that roofed our people warm, Of ships that blindfold through uncharted seas Triumphant rode the storm. Now come we to the battle of our dreams,-- The trumpets neigh, the ranks are closing fast In that stern silence that men keep who know This hour may be their last-- That they, like us, may riven and useless lie Ere once again the bright steel greets the sun. This only pray we--that we may not die Until our work be done. IX THE SWORD OF DAMASCUS Dickon the smith stood under the great oak tree that sheltered the forge, weary and sick at heart. There was no better man of his inches in all Sussex, but the world is not always good to see, even at nineteen. Dickon's world had been empty ever since the departure of Audrey of the Borstall Farm, cousin to Edwitha, the wife of his friend Wilfrid the Potter.