"Vex yourself not about me," she said. "Shall Ruthar's bravest shed their lives for their land and king, and Glorian not do her part?" She lifted her hand and pointed to the standard. "Where Ruthar's banner goes, there goes Glorian also--even into the battle. And I am not dying, or greatly hurt, only dizzied, and my head hums. See; I can arise." And arise she did, with Polaris's arm to support her. Around Jastla's narrowing circle broke the shock of the battle-tide. But for the moment neither the man nor the woman heeded it. "But you are wounded, lady," Janess said. "There is blood on your forehead." She slipped a hand from its gauntlet and raised it to her head. "Hardly a scratch," she said. Just at the roots of her long tresses a splinter from the shivered helmet had scarred the scalp--a tiny cut, scarcely a quarter of an inch in length. Now Albar the zind, who had hung on every word, came out of the spell of horror that had bound him. He swung himself onto his horse. Then for the one time in his life Albar gave orders to a king. "Guard you the goddess and the banner," he cried to Polaris. "I go to tell the men of Ruthar that which shall put in each one the strength of ten!" He rode to Jastla's side. "Gray wolf, may your ring be strong till I come again," he said. "You have within it a king and a goddess." Down rang his vizor, and setting spurs to his horse Albar set out to cross the field and find Oleric the Red. No longer was the fight on the plains one of ordered lines of men. The charge of Polaris had broken the Maeronicans' long front, and they had not been able to close up the gap he had made. So they had swung into the smaller phalanxes of their legions, and the battle was one of division against division, with many breaks between. Here and there the divisions had split up into still smaller groups, and occasionally there might be seen two warriors who fought alone, one laying on for Ruthar and one for Ad. Gray Jastla, fighting with his face to the west, heard Albar's words as the zind flashed past him. To find their meaning, the chieftain cast a hurried glance over his shoulder. He saw Polaris and Glorian standing together under the crimson standard, and was near to letting his sword fall in his surprise. Next instant he rose in his stirrups and clove a Maeronican from shoulder to breastbone. Out rang the chief's voice in a hollow roar through his vizor: "Strike as ye never struck before! Behind you is the Goddess Glorian, come to see that ye do well. Would ye have these Maeronican hounds take her? Strike!" Around the circle echoed the war-cry: "For the Goddess Glorian! Strike!"