Sir Oliver Buttesthorn with his
men-at-arms had swarmed down from the forecastle, while Sir
Nigel, with his three squires, Black Simon, Aylward, Hordle John,
and a score more, threw themselves from the poop and hurled
themselves into the thickest of the fight. Alleyne, as in duty
bound, kept his eyes fixed ever on his lord and pressed forward
close at his heels. Often had he heard of Sir Nigel's prowess
and skill with all knightly weapons, but all the tales that had
reached his ears fell far short of the real quickness and
coolness of the man. It was as if the devil was in him, for he
sprang here and sprang there, now thrusting and now cutting,
catching blows on his shield, turning them with his blade,
stooping under the swing of an axe, springing over the sweep of a
sword, so swift and so erratic that the man who braced himself
for a blow at him might find him six paces off ere he could bring
it down. Three pirates had fallen before him, and he had wounded
Spade-beard in the neck, when the Norman giant sprang at him from
the side with a slashing blow from his deadly mace.
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