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"Your life is in my hands!" cried Tranter, with a bitter smile.
"Nay, nay, he makes submission!" broke in several squires.
"Another sword!" cried Ford.
"Nay, sir," said Harcomb, "that is not the custom."
"Throw down your hilt, Edricson," cried Norbury.
"Never!" said Alleyne. "Do you crave my pardon, sir?"
"You are mad to ask it."
"Then on guard again!" cried the young squire, and sprang in with
a fire and a fury which more than made up for the shortness of
his weapon. It had not escaped him that his opponent was
breathing in short, hoarse gasps, like a man who is dizzy with
fatigue. Now was the time for the purer living and the more
agile limb to show their value. Back and back gave Tranter, ever
seeking time for a last cut. On and on came Alleyne, his jagged
point now at his foeman's face, now at his throat, now at his
chest, still stabbing and thrusting to pass the line of steel
which covered him. Yet his experienced foeman knew well that
such efforts could not be long sustained. Let him relax for one
instant, and his death-blow had come.


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