Margaret looked down straight into his eyes. "You have a strange way, sir, in revealing your love. How many thousands, and hundreds of thousands of my people have you slaughtered this day in cold blood--my helpless citizens, women, little children, the sick in their beds, the wounded, the dying! You drunken libertine, you pitiless coward, you butcher of women, I commend you to the Eternal, the Everlasting Justice. No liberal and justly governed realm was ever abandoned by Almighty God, and to Him I appeal now, to His ordeal of battle." "At last," cried Dymoke, hoarsely, as drawing off his gauntlet, he struck the Russian Emperor in the face. "Your Majesty!" Alexander drew back, almost choked with rage. "I shall avenge this outrage!" "Avenge! Avenge!" cried Dymoke. "I am Hereditary Champion of England. Draw, I say, draw!" "I do not fight with servants. Stand back, sir!" "With servants, you cur? My ancestors were Champions of England while yours gnawed horse bones round a camp fire. Draw!" "Harold Dymoke," said our Lady. "No man shall slight you as my Champion. I dub you knight, I give you the Duchy of Gloucester, I create you a Prince of the United Kingdom. Prince Harold of Gloucester, strike that man again!" Several Russian officers sprang forward attempting to save their master, who had scarcely time to draw, so swift, so furious the assault. Dymoke disarmed the first, ran the second through, and before he could disengage, was like to be killed when Branscombe intervened. Now fat Branscombe was instructor to the Guard, had once been the first swordsman in Europe, but even he was scarcely safe against six blades at once, and must have fallen, but that Hylton struck in vigorously. Dymoke was with the Emperor now. The engagement was general and greatly to our liking--twenty-four Queen's Blackguards against fifty Russians. Our middle-aged opponents knew nothing of swordcraft, their tailor's swords buckled, they were laced up in full-dress uniforms. We cut their line of retreat, flicked the swords from their plump fingers, or, point to throat, forced them to surrender. What could they hope against our youth, our perfect training, our deadly skill at fence, our shirts of mail? We knew that their massed battalions dared not fire, the Emperor was dead, the General Staff was captured.