As the combat proceeded the excitement grew more intense. The spectators seemed not to breathe. For the first time in his career their invincible champion stood in danger. No matter what the cunning and the incomparable skill of his devices, it began to appear that unless the unforeseen occurred to save him he went in danger of his life. It was then that the buzz of voices and the murmurs of applause grew hushed, and soon the gay shouts, the sneering smiles, the sarcasm of their commentary, yielded to a dead silence. The circle of onlookers craned ever closer to the combatants, yet now not a word was spoken; and upon the faces of many there was a mingled surprise and consternation that they sought not to conceal. For the countenance of the first swordsman in France was growing livid. The sweat had crept upon his brow. Proud and brave man though he was, he had begun to feel himself in the grip of a power beyond his own. As with amazing skill the Englishman parried stroke after stroke, which were themselves the fine flowers of his adversary’s talent, each one of which must have sufficed to place one less in genius out of his life, I overheard a bewildered gentleman of the King’s Guard say to a companion, “This fellow must be the Devil!” All at once and quite suddenly there came the sound of bare steel striking the ground. The celebrated Frenchman, the hero of a hundred duellos, stood without a weapon before his adversary. It was a moment I shall never forget. The sympathies of the Count of Nullepart and myself were of course engaged upon the side of Sir Richard Pendragon; but as this noble and imperious French gentleman stood with head upheld and a look of disdain upon his lips to receive the penalty of his failure, I think, in common with all the other witnesses of this splendid encounter, the count and I would have been only too eager to avert it could we have done so. Yet Monsieur du Bartas looked not for mercy. He was known as one who neither gave quarter nor expected to receive it. None, therefore, looked for mercy for him. The Englishman had gained the victory in fair fight; it was perfectly just that he should enjoy its fruits. Such an expectation, however, merely shows how imperfect a thing is the science of reason, and how simple it is to do less than justice even to our friends. For none could have foreseen, least of all the Count of Nullepart and myself, that Sir Richard Pendragon, one of a rude and uncivilized nation, would stoop to pick up a fallen sword and, with a bow that would have become the most accomplished of courtiers, return it to his conquered adversary.