Just then it was that for the first time he heard a sound, far away upon the other side of the arena, and, looking thither, saw the strangest sight that ever his eyes beheld. Over the railing of the pavilion opposite to him a woman climbed nimbly as a cat, and from it, like a cat, dropped to the ground full ten feet below, then, gathering up her dress about her knees, ran swiftly towards him. It was Betty! Betty without a doubt! Betty in her gorgeous garb, with pearls and braided hair flying loose behind her. He stared amazed. All stared amazed, and in half a minute she was on them, and, standing over the fallen Morella, gasped out: “Let him be! I bid you let him be.” Peter knew not what to do or say, so advanced to speak with her, whereon with a swoop like that of a swallow she pounced upon his sword that lay in the sand and, leaping back to Morella, shook it on high, shouting: “You will have to fight me first, Peter.” [Illustration: ] “You will have to fight me first, Peter” Indeed, she did more, striking at him so shrewdly with his own sword that he was forced to spring sideways to avoid the stroke. Now a great roar of laughter went up to heaven. Yes, even Peter laughed, for no such thing as this had ever before been seen in Spain. It died away, and again Betty, who had no low voice, shouted in her villainous Spanish: “He shall kill me before he kills my husband. Give me my husband!” “Take him, for my part,” answered Peter, whereon, letting fall the sword, Betty, filled with the strength of despair, lifted the senseless Spaniard in her strong white arms as though he were a child, and his bleeding head lying on her shoulder, strove to carry him away, but could not. Then, while all that audience cheered frantically, Peter with a gesture of despair threw down his dagger and once more appealed to their Majesties. The king rose and held up his hand, at the same time motioning to Morella’s squires to take him from the woman, which, seeing their cognizance, Betty allowed them to do. “Marchioness of Morella,” said the king, for the first time giving her that title, “your honour is cleared, your champion has conquered, and this fierce fray was to the death. What have you to say?” “Nothing,” answered Betty, “except that I love the man, though he has treated me and others ill, and, as I knew he would if he crossed swords with Peter, has got his deserts for his deeds. I say I love him, and if Peter wishes to kill him, he must kill me first.” “Sir Peter Brome,” said the king, “the judgment lies in your hand. We give you the man’s life, to grant or to take.” Peter thought a while, then answered: “I grant him his life if he will acknowledge this lady to be his true and lawful wife, and live with her as such, now and for ever, staying all suits against her.” “How can he do that, you fool,” asked Betty, “when you have knocked all his senses out of him with that great sword of yours?”