It was not a time for nice tricks of fence, and Gervase saw in a moment that his opponent was a more skilful swordsman than himself. He saw the flash of his opponent´s blade and felt the warm blood streaming down his face, but he did not give him time to repeat the blow. Throwing himself upon him he caught him round the neck, and together they fell to the ground. It was indeed a miracle how they escaped beneath the hoofs of the trampling horses as they grappled with one another in the dust. Then the tide of battle swept past them, and they were left alone to fight it out. But the delicate Frenchman was no match for the stout young giant whose arms were as strong as an oak sapling. Gervase placed his knee upon his breast, and wrenched the sword from his hand. “It is enough, Monsieur; I yield myself prisoner.” Gervase leapt to his feet and reached out his hand to assist his prisoner from the ground. But the other refused the proffered courtesy, and when he had risen, nonchalantly began to arrange his disordered dress, and to brush the dust from his clothes with an embroidered handkerchief. “Your arms, monsieur, are very strong, but I do not understand the fashion of your country. We do not fight thus in France. It is my regret that you should not see the end of this gallant affair.” There was a covert sneer in the tone that there was no mistaking. “I have seen the beginning and the end, sir,” Gervase said simply. “Your men do not seem to relish the fare we have provided for them.” “My men are not soldiers; they are poltroons. Let us dismiss them. May I inquire into whose hands it has been my good fortune to fall?” “My name, sir, is Gervase Orme, sometime ensign in Mountjoy´s regiment, and now in arms for the Protestant religion and the liberties of the kingdom. I am very much at your service.” “You are very good, but Victor de Laprade, whom men call Vicomte of that name, seeks favour from none. I think,” he continued, looking down the road along which the pursuit had rolled, “we are likely to be better acquainted.” “It is not to be doubted, sir: the skirmish is over and your men are wholly broken.” “Nay, Luttrel was a brave man; I am sorry for him, but the rest--let them go.” The moment that the Vicomte de Laprade had gone down in Gervase´s grasp, the dragoons had broken and fled, followed hard by Macpherson and his troop. The pursuers were in no mood to give quarter that day. The atrocities of Galmoy some time before had filled their hearts with a thirst for vengeance; it was a sacred duty not to spare, but to slay, and slay without remorse or pity. Far down the road thundered the headlong flight, pursuers and pursued mingled together. De Laprade had seated himself on the fence by the roadside, and watched without apparent interest the incidents of the pursuit. It was impossible to tell from his face what his real feelings might have been.