laboured, the muscles stood out on his writhing body in knotted cords,
but ever that cruel grip grew more deadly, crushing his spirit and
robbing him of his wonted strength. And those about them watched that
mighty struggle, hushed for wonder of it; even Sir Jocelyn had forgot
his lock of hair, and hummed no more.

For, desperately though he fought and struggled, they saw Gefroi's
great body was bending slowly backward; his eyes stared up, wild and
bloodshot, into the fierce, set face above him; swaying now, he saw the
wide ring of faces, the quiver of leaves and the blue beyond, all a-swim
through the mist of Beltane's yellow hair, and then, writhing in
his anguish, he turned and buried his teeth in Beltane's naked arm, and
with a cunning twist, broke from that deadly grip and staggered free.

Straightway the air was full of shouts and cries, some praising, some
condemning, while Gefroi stood with hanging arms and panted. But
Beltane looking upon his hurt, laughed, short and fierce, and as Gefroi
came upon him, stooped and caught him below the loins. Then Beltane the
strong, the mighty, put forth his strength and, whirling Gefroi aloft,
hurled him backwards over his shoulder. So Gefroi the wrestler fell,
and lay with hairy arms wide-tossed as one that is dead, and for a
space no man spake for the wonder of it.

"By all the Saints, but 'twas a mighty throw!" sighed Sir Jocelyn,
"though alack! sweet my lord, 'twould almost seem my forester hath
something spoiled thy wrestler!"

"And is the roan stallion thine" frowned the Duke, "and to none would I
lose him with a fairer grace, for 'twas a good bout as I foretold: yet,
by the head of St. Martin! meseemeth yon carrion might have done me