"Ay, before our wounds grow stiff," muttered Tom o’ Kingston. "But I would fain some one could tell Polly Bremskete how I played the man." But Ralph thought of nothing that was said. He only saw a grey mist--a crimson sunset glow--brown purply foliage, and a lovely face with large blue eyes, a crown of waving yellow hair, and two soft lips saying, "Thou will watch over him, Ralph;" and he kept saying to himself. "I will do my duty." And now the time had come. The group of weary horsemen rode down to meet their death. Grimly they settled themselves in their saddles, and sternly they handled their weapons. The setting sun glowed on their battered armour, their fluttering tabards, and on the blood-red cross on their breasts-- "The deare remembrance of their dying Lorde." All the gay splendour of pompous war was gone, there only remained the iron will of stern and fixed resolve animating those war-worn figures, awful in their grim and reckless daring. They rode to seek their death. The French men-at-arms, seeing them coming, were struck with admiration at their gallant bearing; but the orders of their captain were strict. No one who wore a red cross was to be spared. They therefore prepared to meet the little troop. Their leader was no less a person than Sir James Galliotti himself. With generous chivalry, seeing the Lord Woodville had no lance, he threw away his own, and drew his sword. The little squadrons met, and for a moment it was difficult to tell how the shock had gone. But in a minute more it was seen that the Captain of the Wight was still on horseback, and fighting against fearful odds. But the gallant Sir James Galliotti was down, and so were Tom o’ Kingston and Sir John Trenchard. The former had singled out a huge Frenchman, and cleft his helm in twain, but had, at the same time, been pierced through his visor into his brain by another man-at-arms. Sir John had also killed his man, but had received a mortal wound in doing so, and lay grimly still waiting for death to relieve him. "I would my good dame could have had my body for burial, for she ever kept such fine linen for my winding-sheet. But it is as God wills, and it will serve for her own cere-cloth. ’Tis hard for her I die, seeing her own age. I misdoubt me if she can find another husband now. But ’tis ever as God wills." Ralph still struggled beside his lord. He had set his teeth, and his gauntlet seemed to have grown to his mace. In front of him was a well-armed cavalier, who was aiming a deadly thrust at the Captain of the Wight. Ralph smote down the spear, and attacked the foe with such strength as was left him. He threw himself upon the man-at-arms, and split his helmet with his mace. But his antagonist had also struck him, and the fierce back-handed stroke shore off the upper part of his casque, exposing Ralph’s wavy fair hair and weary eyes.