a quart. 'Here is such wine,' said Reinold, as thou hast seldom tasted,' and was about to pour it out into a cup. 'Nay, the flagon-the flagon, friend Reinold; I love a deep and solemn draught when the business is weighty,' said Wilkin. He seized on the flagon accordingly, and drinking a preparatory mouthful, paused as if to estimate the strength and flavour of the generous liquor. Apparently he was pleased with both, for he nodded in approbation to the butler; and, raising the flagon to his mouth once more, he slowly and gradually brought the bottom of the vessel parallel with the roof of the apartment, without suffering one drop of the contents to escape him.

'That hath savour, Herr Keller-master,' said he, while he was recovering his breath by intervals, after so long a suspense of respiration; but may Heaven forgive you for thinking it the best I have ever tasted! You little know the cellars of Ghent and of Ypres.'

And I care not for them,' said Reinold; those of gentle Norman blood hold the wines of Gascony and France, generous, light, and cordial, worth all the acid potations of the Rhine and the Neckar.'

'All is matter of taste,' said the Fleming; but hark ye— Is there much of this wine in the cellar ?

'Methought but now it pleased not your dainty palate ?' said Reinold.

Nay, nay, my friend,' said Wilkin, 'I said it had savour -I may have drunk better-but this is right good, where better may not be had.—Again, how much of it hast thou?' The whole butt, man,' answered the butler; 'I have broached a fresh piece for you.'

Good,' replied Flammock; 'get the quart-pot of Christian measure; heave the cask up into this same buttery, and let each soldier of this castle be served with such a cup as I have here swallowed. I feel it hath done me much good-my heart was sinking when I saw the black smoke arising from mine own fulling-mills yonder. Let each man, I say, have a full quart-pot-men defend not castles on thin liquors.'

'I must do as you will, good Wilkin Flammock,' said the butler; but I pray remember all men are not alike. That which will but warm your Flemish hearts, will put wildfire

into Norman brains; and what may only encourage your countrymen to man the walls, will make ours fly over the battlements.'

'Well, you know the conditions of your own countrymen best; serve out to them what wines and measure you listonly let each Fleming have a solemn quart of Rhenish.-But what will you do for the English churls, of whom there are a right many left with us?

6

The old butler paused, and rubbed his brow. There will be a strange waste of liquor,' he said; and yet I may not deny that the emergency may defend the expenditure. But for the English, they are, as you wot, a mixed breed, having much of your German sullenness, together with a plentiful touch of the hot blood of yonder Welsh furies. Light wines stir them not; strong heavy draughts would madden them. What think you of ale, an invigorating, strengthening liquor, that warms the heart without inflaming the brain ? '

'Ale!' said the Fleming.- Hum-ha-is your ale mighty, Sir Butler ?-is it double ale ?

Do you doubt my skill?' said the butler. ' March and October have witnessed me ever as they came round, for thirty years, deal with the best barley in Shropshire. You shall judge.'

He filled, from a large hogshead in the corner of the buttery, the flagon which the Fleming had just emptied, and which was no sooner replenished than Wilkin again drained it to the bottom.

Good ware,' he said, 'Master Butler, strong stinging ware. The English churls will fight like devils upon it-let them be furnished with mighty ale along with their beef and brown bread. And now, having given you your charge, Master Reinold, it is time I should look after mine own.'

Wilkin Flammock left the buttery, and with a mien and judgement alike undisturbed by the deep potations in which he had so recently indulged, undisturbed also by the various rumours concerning what was passing without doors, he made the round of the castle and its outworks, mustered the little garrison, and assigned to each their posts, reserving to his own countrymen the management of the arblasts, or crossbows, and of the military engines which were contrived by the proud Normans, and were incomprehensible to the

indeed, to the gallant ship, but only to assail her sides, and to unite in her wake. With wild and horrible clamours, they closed their tumultuous ranks around Berenger and his devoted followers, and a deadly scene of strife ensued.

The best warriors of Wales had on this occasion joined the standard of Gwenwyn; the arrows of the men of Gwentland, whose skill in archery almost equalled that of the Normans themselves, rattled on the helmets of the men-atarms; and the spears of the people of Deheubarth, renowned for the sharpness and temper of their steel heads, were, employed against the cuirasses not without fatal effect, notwithstanding the protection which these afforded to the rider.

It was in vain that the archery belonging to Raymond's little band, stout yeomen, who, for the most part, held possessions by military tenure, exhausted their quivers on the broad mark afforded them by the Welsh army. It is probable that every shaft carried a Welshman's life on its point; yet, to have afforded important relief to the cavalry, now closely and inextricably engaged, the slaughter ought to have been twenty-fold at least. Meantime, the Welsh, galled by this incessant discharge, answered it by volleys. from their own archers, whose numbers made some amends for their inferiority, and who were supported by numerous bodies of darters and slingers. So that the Norman archers, who had more than once attempted to descend from their position to operate a diversion in favour of Raymond and his devoted band, were now so closely engaged in front, as obliged them to abandon all thoughts of such a

movement.

Meanwhile, that chivalrous leader, who from the first had hoped for no more than an honourable death, laboured with all his power to render his fate signal, by involving in it that of the Welsh prince, the author of the war. He cautiously avoided the expenditure of his strength by hewing among the British; but, with the shock of his managed horse, repelled the numbers who pressed on him, and leaving the plebeians to the swords of his companions, shouted his warcry, and made his way towards the fatal standard of Gwenwyn, beside which, discharging at once the duties of a skilful leader and a brave soldier, the prince had stationed

himself. Raymond's experience of the Welsh disposition, subject equally to the highest flood and most sudden ebb of passion, gave him some hope that a successful attack upon this point, followed by the death or capture of the prince, and the downfall of his standard, might even yet strike such a panic as should change the fortunes of the day, otherwise so nearly desperate. The veteran, therefore, animated his comrades to the charge by voice and example; and, in spite of all opposition, forced his way gradually onward. But Gwenwyn in person, surrounded by his best and noblest champions, offered a defence as obstinate as the assault was intrepid. In vain they were borne to the earth by the barbed horses, or hewed down by the invulnerable riders. Wounded and overthrown, the Britons continued their resistance, clung round the legs of the Norman steeds, and cumbered their advance; while their brethren, thrusting with pikes, proved every joint and crevice of the plate and mail, or, grappling with the men-at-arms, strove to pull them from their horses by main force, or beat them down with their bills and Welsh hooks. And woe betide those who were by these various means dismounted, for the long sharp knives worn by the Welsh soon pierced them with a hundred wounds, and were then only merciful when the first inflicted was deadly.

The combat was at this point, and had raged for more than half an hour, when Berenger, having forced his horse within two spears' length of the British standard, he and Gwenwyn were so near to each other as to exchange tokens of mutual defiance.

'Turn thee, Wolf of Wales,' said Berenger,' and abide, if thou darest, one blow of a good knight's sword! Raymond Berenger spits at thee and thy banner.'

'False Norman churl!' said Gwenwyn, swinging around his head a mace of prodigious weight, and already clottered with blood,thy iron head-piece shall ill protect thy lying tongue, with which I will this day feed the ravens.'

Raymond made no further answer, but pushed his horse towards the prince, who advanced to meet him with equal readiness. But ere they came within reach of each other's weapons, a Welsh champion, devoted like the Romans who opposed the elephants of Pyrrhus, finding that the armour

of Raymond's horse resisted the repeated thrusts of his spear, threw himself under the animal, and stabbed him in the belly with his long knife. The noble horse reared and fell, crushing with his weight the Briton who had wounded him; the helmet of the rider burst its clasps in the fall, and rolled away from his head, giving to view his noble features and grey hairs. He made more than one effort to extricate himself from the fallen horse, but ere he could succeed, received his death's-wound from the hand of Gwenwyn, who hesitated not to strike him down with his mace while in the act of extricating himself.

During the whole of this bloody day, Dennis Morolt's horse had kept pace for pace, and his arm blow for blow, with his master's. It seemed as if two different bodies had been moving under one act of volition. He husbanded his strength, or put it forth, exactly as he observed his knight did, and was close by his side when he made the last deadly effort. At that fatal moment, when Raymond Berenger rushed on the chief, the brave squire forced his way up to the standard, and, grasping it firmly, struggled for possession of it with a gigantic Briton, to whose care it had been confided, and who now exerted his utmost strength to defend it. But even while engaged in this mortal struggle, the eye of Morolt scarcely left his master; and when he saw him fall, his own force seemed by sympathy to abandon him, and the British champion had no longer any trouble in laying him prostrate among the slain.

The victory of the British was now complete. Upon the fall of their leader, the followers of Raymond Berenger would willingly have fled or surrendered. But the first was impossible, so closely had they been enveloped; and in the cruel wars maintained by the Welsh upon their frontiers, quarter to the 'vanquished was out of question. A few of the men-at-arms were lucky enough to disentangle themselves from the tumult, and, not even attempting to enter the castle, fled in various directions, to carry their own fears among the inhabitants of the marches, by announcing the loss of the battle, and the fate of the far-renowned Raymond Berenger.

The archers of the fallen leader, as they had never been so deeply involved in the combat, which had been chiefly