“Let the arrangements be as simple as possible,” the Englishman had said. But no pomp or show could have added to the awful solemnity of the occasion. As the two men faced each other, looking so resolute and brave, and yet so gentle, a thousand eyes grew dim. They shook hands cordially with each other, and spent a few moments in private conversation. It was hoped that they would address the assembly, which, indeed, consisted of the greatest men of all nations, and the hope was not disappointed. “It is no time for words,” said the English Prince, “but the occasion is a marked one, and perhaps words, however poor, may prove to be seeds which shall hereafter grow into a harvest. The brave knight of France has become my dear friend, and therefore there is no enmity, but only love to each other in our hearts this morning; and our friendship is none the less strong because one of us will certainly kill the other. We are both more willing to-day than ever to sacrifice our lives in the cause of peace and in the interests of our country. I am for England with all my heart, and to the very backbone—brave, heroic, Christian England. She has been spoilt by some faults, but the morning of her regeneration has arrived, and I call upon you Englishmen, in God’s name, to be worthy of her traditions, and arise to the demands of the new era which is upon us.” Then, in a voice that pierced to the outer edge of the crowd, he cried, “Never more shall war mean the slaying of thousands! And _God bless England_!” The Frenchman’s speech was longer, and it called upon his countrymen to live and die for fair France. Then the trumpeters gave the signal for the contest to begin, and men held their breath—watching with their souls in their eyes. There was a little play and parrying at first; but presently the men fought in deadly earnest, and their flashing swords became stained with blood. Suddenly there was a halt—the Prince’s sword had snapped, and a new one was required. Then there was a cry for intervention. “Let the contest cease! Enough! Enough!” But the young men would not yield to that cry, and again there was a clashing of swords. The moments seemed ages to those who looked on, and several fainted and could gaze no longer; indeed, the excitement proved too great to be endured. But the contest was not to be prolonged. Presently one fell from his horse, wounded fatally. It was the English Prince. The doctors were at his side in a moment. He could still speak a few words. “The wound is fatal, I know,” he said. “Bayard, where are you?” The Frenchman took the Prince in his arms and put his head on his shoulder. “Forgive me,” he said, hastily.