Theobaldo, meanwhile, who seemed now delighted with what was going forward, moved briskly, sometimes before, and sometimes after them. “Noble sirs,” said he, when they had come about half-way, “forgive me if I seem thus cheerful, when you have business so tragical on your hands. But through my whole life I have never wished so much for any sight that is recreative and reviving to the beholder, as a real combat for life and death, between two heavily-armed and valiant champions. Such an encounter I would often have tried willingly at the risk of my own life; but it has never been my fortune hitherto to engage in conflict with any assailants better than light-armed cowardly banditti. And when people make pretended fights together, nothing, in my opinion, can be more contemptible and ridiculous. I consider myself fortunate, therefore, as I shall to-day behold a glorious encounter; for I am thoroughly convinced that you will both conduct yourselves like well-proved and undaunted heroes.” Amid the thickets of the copsewood, the two knights soon discovered a free open glade, with smooth turf, which was well fitted for their combat. Without making farther conditions, or even interchanging a word, they directly took their places, drew their swords, and attacked one another with great wrath and violence, while Theobaldo composedly took his station as a looker-on, leaning against a high lime-tree. The whole air rung with the clashing of their swords, though not one blow hit effectively, but was either driven back by the shield or by their plumed helmets, so that the ground, instead of being stained with blood, was strewed with partycoloured feathers. During the conflict, Sir Heerdegen’s voice was always heard from the hollow of his rusty beaver, calling aloud, “Bertha! Bertha!” and it seemed often as if Otto recoiled at this exclamation, though he still repelled every stroke of his enemy’s sword. Perceiving this, Heerdegen redoubled his blows, and Sir Otto continued merely to ward them off as well as he could, without, as it appeared, attempting to make any farther attack, till at last his shield was cut in two, and he had only one half left in his hand. Then his rage suddenly broke out like that of a wounded lion;--as if a lightning-flash of inspiration had kindled within his heart, he threw aside the broken remnant of his shield,--and from his silver helmet were heard the silvery tones of his youthful voice, pronouncing fervently the name, “Gabrielle! Gabrielle!” At the same time he held his sword grasped in both hands, and therewith inflicted such a storm of blows on his opponent’s head, breast, and shield-arm, that suddenly a stream of blood burst from the visor of Sir Heerdegen. At the moment when Sir Otto perceived this, he held back his sword, and the wounded knight, being no longer able by any effort to support himself, fell powerless, with a great crash of his armour, upon the grass.