A desperate hewing and thrusting in the narrow gateway, and Black Ivo’s shattered following were driven in and the narrow streets and alleys of the town full of battle and slaughter.  Street by street the town was won until before them loomed the mighty keep of Pentavalon’s ducal stronghold.  Outer and inner bailey were stormed and so at last came they, a desperate, close-fighting company, into the great tilt-yard before the castle.

Now of a sudden a shout went up and thereafter was a great quiet—­a silence wherein friend and foe, panting and weary, stood alike at gaze.  And amid this expectant hush the two Dukes of Pentavalon fronted each other.  No word said they, but, while all eyes watched them, each took lance and riding to the extremity of the courtyard, wheeled, and couching their lances, spurred fiercely against each other.  And now men held their breath to behold these two great knights, who, crouched low in their saddles, met midway in full career with crash and splintering shock of desperate onset.  Duke Beltane reeled in his stirrups, recovered, and leaning forward stared down upon his enemy, who, prostrate on his back, slowly lifted gauntleted hand that, falling weakly, clashed upon the stones—­a small sound, yet plain to be heard by reason of that breathless hush.

Slow and stiffly Duke Beltane dismounted, and reeling in his gait, came and knelt beside Black Ivo and loosed off his riven helm.  Thereafter, slow and painfully, he arose, and looking round upon all men, spake faint-voiced.

“God—­hath judged—­betwixt us this day!” said he, “and to-day—­ methinks—­He doth summon me—­to judgment—­” Even as he spake he lifted his hands, struggling with the lacing of his helmet, staggered, and would have fallen, wherefore Beltane sprang forward.  Yet one there was quicker than he, one whose goodly armour, smirched and battered, yet showed the blazon of Bourne.

“Benedict!” quoth Duke Beltane feebly, “faithful wert thou to the last!  O Benedict, where is my noble son!”

“Father!” cried Beltane, “thou hast this day won Pentavalon from her shame and misery!” But the Duke lay very still in their arms and spake no word.

So, when they had uncovered his white head, they bore him tenderly into the great banqueting hall and laid him on goodly couch and cherished him with water and wine, wherefore, in a while, he opened swooning eyes.

“Beltane!” he whispered, “dear and noble son—­thy manhood—­hath belike won thy father’s soul to God’s mercy.  So do I leave thee to cherish all those that—­have known wrong and woe—­by reason of my selfish life!  Dear son, bury me with thy—­noble mother, but let me lie—­at her feet, Beltane.  O had I been less selfish—­in my sorrow!  But God is merciful!  Benedict—­kiss me—­and thou, my Beltane—­God calleth me—­to rest. In manus tuas—­Domine!” Then Duke Beltane, that had been the Hermit Ambrose, clasped his mailed hands and smiling wondrous glad and tender, yielded his soul to God.