At the end of half an hour, no material advantage had been gained; the mail of either champion was broken in many places, and the blood flowed, of both, from more wounds than one; that of Aradas the more freely. But as they paused, perforce, to snatch a moment's breath, it was clear that Sir Aradas was the fresher and less fatigued of the two; while Sir Foulke was evidently short of wind, and hard pressed. It was not the young man's game to give his enemy time--so, before half a minute had passed, he set on him again, with the same fiery vigor and energy as before. His opponent, however, saw that the long play was telling against him, and it appeared that he was determined to bring the conflict to a close by sheer force. One great stride he made forward, measuring his distance accurately with his eye, and making hand and foot keep time exactly, as he swung his massive blade in a full circle round his head, and delivered the sweeping blow, at its mightiest impetus, on the right side of his enemy's casque. Like a thunderbolt it fell; and, beneath its sway, the baçinet, cerveilliere, and avantaille of Aradas gave way, shattered like an egg-shell. He stood utterly unhelmed, save that the beaver and the base of the casque, protecting the nape of his neck and his lower jaw, held firm, and supported the mailed hood of linked steel rings, which defended his neck to the shoulder. All else was bare, and exposed to the first blow of his now triumphant antagonist. The fight seemed ended by that single blow; and, despite the injunction of the herald, a general groan burst from the assembly. Guendolen covered her face with her hands for a second, but then looked up again, with a wild and frenzied eye, compelled to gaze, to the last, on that terribly fascinating scene. But then was it shown what might there is in activity, what resistless power in quickness. For, leaping and bounding round the heavy giant, like a sword-player, letting him waste his every blow on the empty air or in the impassive sawdust, Aradas plied his sword like a thrasher's flail, dealing every blow at his neck and the lacings of his casque, till fastening after fastening broke, and it was clear that d'Oilly, too, would be unhelmed in a few more moments. The excitement of the people was ungovernable; they danced in their seats, they shouted, they roared. No heralds, no pursuivants, no men-at-arms, could control them. The soul of the people had awakened, and what could fetter it? Still, wonderful as they were, the exertions of Aradas, completely armed in heavy panoply, were too mighty to last. The thing must be finished. Down came the trenchant blade with a circling sweep, full on the jointed-plates of d'Oilly's new-fangled gorget. Rivet after rivet, plate after plate, gave way with a rending crash; his helmet rolled on the ground. He stood bare-headed, bare-throated, unarmed to the shoulders.