The island was now full of life. The news flew like lightning from one boat’s crew to another that a strange soldier had arrived, who was going to fight a duel with the much-dreaded Anika. All work stopped, and the people crowded together from all parts to see the stranger. The crew of Anika’s ship also came ashore to be present at the fight. A place was chosen on Fiskerö where the fight was to take place. At last they made their way thither, each with his own company: Anika with his sailors, and Ambrose followed by the fishermen. The place was cleared and enclosed by a circle of stones, and it is still shown to visitors, even after a lapse of more than three hundred years. The two combatants placed themselves inside the ring, while the fishermen crowded together, and in silence formed a living wall around them. It was close upon midnight, and all was ready. The sun lay low down to the north, red as molten gold, tingeing with a marvellously beautiful purple glow the clouds and sky, and glittering like diamonds and rubies over the foaming waves, which the Arctic Ocean dashed, with a sullen roar, upon the rocky coast. The fight began. Sword clashed with sword, and the golden red of the sun shimmered on the crossing sword-blades. Ambrose soon recognised, after the first thrust had been made and parried, that he had a practised foe before him. He was obliged even to give way in parrying the furious blows which Anika showered upon him, and he had to retreat to the edge of the circle. According to the story as it is told, the one who was driven outside the circle was accounted as conquered. As Ambrose was in the act of retreating in parrying the blows, Anika sought with one desperate blow to finish him. The blow was so tremendous that only an adept could withstand it. It was parried about an inch from the top of Ambrose’s head, but his hat, which he had on, was knocked off by it, so that the whole of his noble face and his beautiful priestly hair, which fell on his shoulders, could be seen. A shout of astonishment and of contempt broke forth from Anika’s men. ‘It’s a monk, it’s a priest, who has come here to fight our unvanquished chief!’ But now the scar in Ambrose’s forehead turned a brilliant red, and it seemed as if, all at once, his limbs had become steeled. His strokes fell so rapidly and so furiously that it was Anika’s turn to retreat nearer and nearer towards the ring, on the opposite side. The fishermen cheered on the stranger with shouts of encouragement, Anika defended himself with desperation, but it was as if a panic had seized him on the discovery that he was fighting with a monk, and without resistance he was driven backwards to the ring. ‘Pirate,’ shouted the stranger at the last, ‘you shall die!’ and at the same moment he levelled such a fearful blow at Anika in the forehead that he fell backwards, ‘three ells outside the ring,’ as the legend has it.