In truth, Wolf, though now a man and a handsome one, was neither tall nor largely proportioned, and in both respects his adversary had an overwhelming advantage. Nevertheless he was a model of manly strength and beauty--his body compactly formed, his limbs well knit and hardened by constant exercise, and his sunburnt face comely and calm in its expression of fearless courage and resolute will. And now, all preliminaries having been settled, the combatants advanced upon each other and closed in stern encounter. Nor had anything witnessed on St. James’s Day equalled its ferocity. They seized each other by the arms, drew backwards, pushed forwards, locked their limbs into each other, seized and pressed furiously, dashed their heads against each other like rams, and did all they could to lift each other from the ground. At length, however, the struggle ended. Wolf was on the ground, and Martin Girder, who stood over him, was loudly applauded for a victory which it had cost him all his heart and all his energy to obtain. After a brief interval the champions came forth for the second encounter, and this time the struggle was not prolonged. Scarcely had they closed when Wolf made himself master of his adversary’s legs, and a fall was the immediate consequence. The Londoners this time had not a word to say. Fitzarnulph looked very black, and the archer remarked with a knowing glance-- “All right, mine host; the son of Styr is too much accustomed to brutes not to understand the nature of the animal he has to deal with. St. Hubert! but it was well and resolutely done.”