CHAPTER XXXVII. HOW THE WHITE COMPANY CAME TO BE DISBANDED.

ThenuprosefromthehillintheruggedCantabrianvalleyasoundsuchashadnotbeenheardinthosepartsbefore,norwasagain,untilthestreamswhichrippledamidtherockshadbeenfrozenbyoverfourhundredwintersandthawedbyasmanyreturningsprings.Deepandfullandstrongitthundereddowntheravine,thefiercebattle-callofawarriorrace,thelaststernwelcometowhososhouldjoinwiththeminthatworld-oldgamewherethestakeisdeath.Thriceitswelledforthandthriceitsankaway,echoingandreverberatingamidstthecrags.Then,withsetfaces,theCompanyroseupamongthestormofstones,andlookeddownuponthethousandswhospedswiftlyuptheslopeagainstthem.Horseandspearhadbeensetaside,butonfoot,withswordandbattle-axe,theirbroadshieldsslunginfrontofthem,thechivalryofSpainrushedtotheattack. Andnowaroseastrugglesofell,solong,soevenlysustained,thatevennowthememoryofitishandeddownamongsttheCantabrianmountaineersandtheill-omenedknollisstillpointedoutbyfatherstotheirchildrenasthe“AlturadelosInglesos,”wherethemenfromacrosstheseafoughtthegreatfightwiththeknightsofthesouth.Thelastarrowwasquicklyshot,norcouldtheslingershurltheirstones,soclosewerefriendandfoe.FromsidetosidestretchedthethinlineoftheEnglish,lightlyarmedandquick-footed,whileagainstitstormedandragedthepressingthrongoffierySpaniardsandofgallantBretons.Theclinkofcrossingsword-blades,thedullthuddingofheavyblows,thepantingandgaspingofwearyandwoundedmen,allrosetogetherinawild,long-drawnnote,whichswelledupwardstotheearsofthewonderingpeasantswholookeddownfromtheedgesofthecliffsupontheswayingturmoilofthebattlebeneaththem.Backandforwardreeledtheleopardbanner,nowborneuptheslopebytherushandweightoftheonslaught,nowpushingdownwardsagainasSirNigel,Burley,andBlackSimonwiththeirveteranmen-atarms,flungthemselvesmadlyintothefray.Alleyne,athislord'srighthand,foundhimselfswepthitherandthitherinthedesperatestruggle,exchangingsavagethrustsoneinstantwithaSpanishcavalier,andthenexttornawaybythewhirlofmenanddashedupagainstsomenewantagonist.TotherightSirOliver,Aylward,HordleJohn,andthebowmenoftheCompanyfoughtfuriouslyagainstthemonkishKnightsofSantiago,whowereledupthehillbytheirprior—agreat,deep-chestedman,whoworeabrownmonastichabitoverhissuitofmail.Threearchersheslewinthreegiantstrokes,butSirOliverflunghisarmsroundhim,andthetwo,staggeringandstraining,reeledbackwardsandfell,lockedineachother'sgrasp,overtheedgeofthesteepcliffwhichflankedthehill.Invainhisknightsstormedandravedagainstthethinlinewhichbarredtheirpath:theswordofAylwardandthegreataxeofJohngleamedintheforefrontofthebattleandhugejaggedpiecesofrock,hurledbythestrongarmsofthebowmen,crashedandhurtledamidtheirranks.Slowlytheygavebackdownthehill,thearchersstillhangingupontheirskirts,withalonglitterofwrithingandtwistedfigurestomarkthecoursewhichtheyhadtaken.AtthesameinstanttheWelshmenupontheleft,ledonbytheScotchearl,hadchargedoutfromamongtherockswhichshelteredthem,andbythefuryoftheiroutfallhaddriventheSpaniardsinfrontoftheminheadlongflightdownthehill.Inthecentreonlythingsseemedtobegoingillwiththedefenders.BlackSimonwasdown—dying,ashewouldwishtohavedied,likeagrimoldwolfinitslairwitharingofhisslainaroundhim.TwiceSirNigelhadbeenoverborne,andtwiceAlleynehadfoughtoverhi