the best among us may bring himself under the dominion of evil spirits, whose very existence he had not before suspected. The Prince Mutza was now so far sunk and depraved, that he pretended no longer to know the Knight of Montfaucon, but called out to his attendants,--“Take him prisoner!--Will this base merchant,--assassin too as he seems,--dare to expect that a prince will meet him in the lists?” Then all the armed men of the prince’s train threw themselves from their horses, and, trusting to their superiority of numbers, thought that they would easily have overpowered Sir Folko. But, as if suddenly gifted with supernatural energy, he struck with his Persian sabre two or three of those who first approached him too rashly and confidently, in such manner, that they fell disabled to the ground. Then, as the rest stood for a moment astonished at this achievement, he rushed up to the sumpter-mule, drew forth daggers, arrows, javelins, and battle-axes, and with incredible strength and rapidity of arm, hurled them at the mob of his assailants, till they howled and shrieked in their confusion and terror. “Try the base merchant!” cried he in a voice of thunder. “These are his wares,--and the price he demands is but the blood of cowards and robbers!” The prince’s attendants now retired and fled in all directions; nor did any one among them seem inclined to renew the contest. At length Mutza, with the fiery blush of shame and rage on his features, exclaimed, “Pitiful cravens as you are, then must I myself end the career of this madman?” He was preparing to dismount from his horse, when the Knight of Montfaucon exclaimed, “Of all the cowards that have been here present, thou thyself art the most pitiful and dastardly; nor dost thou any longer deserve that a brave knight should honour thee with the chances of a single combat!” Thereupon he hurled a battle-axe at his opponent, taking his aim so securely and resolutely, that the iron struck deep into Mutza’s lofty forehead, and the false-hearted young libertine fell lifeless from his horse. Just ere he lost his place in the saddle, however, either in the convulsions of approaching death, or as a last effort of his vehement rage, he threw his Damascus sabre at his foe, and the sharp weapon struck so fearful a wound in Sir Folko’s breast, that he also fell to the ground, and the cowardly squires, glad to avail themselves of this accident, in order to revenge their master’s death and their own disgrace, rushed up to the now fainting chevalier, and cut him with their sabres, so that his blood flowed in torrents on the grass. Anxiously and mournfully did the faithful falcon hover in the air, looking down on this frightful adventure.