Half a minute had not passed ere the Frenchman’s slashing blade drew blood from the Mountjoy’s arm, then from his shoulder; and for one black instant methought the blow was mortal. But for minute after minute, my father fought on, with lips tight closed and eyes that ever followed the hand of his enemy. Then I wondered if De Latiere, with all his leaps and runs, would not tire himself at the last, and slowing in his thrusts, give my father’s slower spent strength its chance for victory. But again I saw how fast the Mountjoy bled from the two wounds he already had; and this hope flitted. Then truly, in bitterness of spirit, did I perceive how false and cruel is our vaunted trial by wager of battle. Here was my father, a good man and true, fighting to defend the life of an innocent youth; and this dancing Frenchman, to whom the sword was as the wand of a juggler, would soon kill him before our eyes. That Cedric, the forester, was guiltless of the treacherous deed with which he stood charged altered not a whit the devilish skill of the champion who fought to see him hang. And if De Latiere overcame my father at the last, and left him dead at the feet of the King, the tale that I had told would be no whit less true for such an outcome. Verily at that moment my eyes were opened, and thoughts came to me that shall remain while yet I live. Now the end fast approached. Blood streamed from my father’s wounds, and he breathed fast and thickly. He scarce moved from his tracks save ever to turn and face his ape-like enemy, whose blade flashed as swiftly as ever, and in whose eyes gleamed a look of deadly purpose. My eyes could never follow the stroke which brought to a close this desperate, unequal combat. What I saw was that the Frenchman’s blade had pierced my father’s breast. Then—all the Saints be thanked!—one last fierce blow from the Champion of Mountjoy. This instant was the first since the duel began when De Latiere’s matchless guarding had not fenced his body from my father’s thrust. As quick as the light’s rebound when it strikes the surface of still water was the Mountjoy’s return of the stroke he had received. The next moment both the champions lay on the floor; and King and knights and lords rushed forward to their succor. De Latiere was thrust clean through the body; and he never moved nor spoke. But my father’s wound, though grievous, it now appeared was far from mortal, his enemy’s blade not having deeply pierced him. Now he raised himself on his arm and claimed the victory for Mountjoy and the right. ————