far from spent, yet, here, the shadows had already begun to lengthen
into an early twilight. Some two hundred yards down this road was a
group of figures that swayed, now this way, now that, in the broil of
conflict, while from it came the clash of steel. In the road was the
dead body of a horse, and, upon either side of it, lay two men who
would never draw weapon again. The one had been split almost to the
nose by a single downright blow, and the other had been pierced through
the throat by a thrust of the point.

At a little distance, with his back against a tree and defending
himself vigorously from the assault of half a dozen men, stood a tall
and elderly Knight. He was not in armor, except for a light corselet
of steel, and already he had been more than once slightly wounded. His
bonnet had been lost in the melée, and his grey hair was smudged with
blood along the temple. Two more men were dead at his feet, and for
the moment the others hesitated to press in and end the fight. That
huge sword could make short work of at least another pair of them
before the hands that held it would relax, and the uncertainty as to
which would be the victims stayed their rush. Suddenly the Knight
leaped forward, cut down the one nearest him, and was back to the tree
before the others had recovered from their surprise. Then with a roar
of anger they flung themselves upon him, and the struggle began anew.
In their rage and impetuosity, however, they fought without method, and
the Knight was able for a short interval, by skilful play, to sweep
aside their points and to parry their blows. But it forced him to
fight wholly on the defensive, and his age and wounds left no doubt as
to the ultimate result. His arm grew tired, and the grip on his sword
hilt weakened. . . His enemies pressed him closer and closer. . . A
blow got past his guard and pierced his thigh. He had strength for
only one more stroke; and he gathered it for a final rush and balanced