“The Falcon will be spiked,” they screamed. “The Eagle wins!—the Eagle wins!” And indeed it seemed that it must be so. Straight at Peter’s undefended face drove Morella’s lance, but lo! as it came he let fall his reins and with his shield he struck at the white plumes about its point, the plumes torn from his own head. He had judged well, for up flew those plumes, a little, a very little, yet far enough to give him space, crouching on his saddle-bow, to pass beneath the deadly spear. Then, as they swept past each other, out shot that long, right arm of his and, gripping Morella like a hook of steel, tore him from his saddle, so that the black horse rushed forward riderless, and the white sped on bearing a double burden. Grasping desperately, Morella threw his arms about his neck, and intertwined, black armour mixed with white, they swayed to and fro, while the frightened horse beneath rushed this way and that till, swerving suddenly, together they fell upon the sand, and for a moment lay there stunned. “Who conquers?” gasped the crowd; while others answered, “Both are sped!” And, leaning forward in her chair, Margaret tore off her veil and watched with a face like the face of death. See! As they had fallen together, so together they stirred and rose—rose unharmed. Now they sprang back, out flashed the long swords, and, while the squires caught the horses and, running in, seized the broken spears, they faced each other. Having no helm, Peter held his buckler above his head to shelter it, and, ever calm, awaited the onslaught. At him came Morella, and with a light, grating sound his sword fell upon the steel. Before he could recover himself Peter struck back; but Morella bent his knees, and the stroke only shore the black plumes from his casque. Quick as light he drove at Peter’s face with his point; but the Englishman leapt to one side, and the thrust went past him. Again Morella came at him, and struck so mighty a blow that, although Peter caught it on his buckler, it sliced through the edge of it and fell upon his unprotected neck and shoulder, wounding him, for now red blood showed on the white armour, and Peter reeled back beneath the stroke. “The Eagle wins!—the Eagle wins! Spain and the Eagle” shouted ten thousand throats. In the momentary silence that followed, a single voice, a clear woman’s voice, which even then Margaret knew for that of Inez, cried from among the crowd: “Nay, the Falcon stoops!” Before the sound of her words died away, maddened it would seem, by the pain of his wound, or the fear of defeat, Peter shouted out his war-cry of “A Brome! A Brome!” and, gathering himself together, sprang straight at Morella as springs a starving wolf. The blue steel flickered in the sunlight, then down it fell, and lo! half the Spaniard’s helm lay on the sand, while it was Morella’s turn to reel backward—and more, as he did so, he let fall his shield. “A stroke!—a good stroke!” roared the crowd. “The Falcon!—the Falcon!”