The two were face to face. Round them on horse and on foot, at a
distance perhaps of twenty paces, were gathered the Clavering men and
the French Count's troop; for now all had come up from the far parts of
the marsh. Only toward the river side the ring was open, whether because
those who made it feared Grey Dick's arrows, or in order that he and Red
Eve might see everything that chanced.

The pair were well matched, for though Hugh was the taller, John, his
senior by a year, was thicker set and better trained in arms. But the
sword of John was longer by a hand's breadth than that Hugh carried as
a merchant, which was heavy, of such a make as the ancient Romans used,
and sharpened on either edge. Neither of them wore armour, since Hugh
had no right to do so, and John had not come out to fight.

They stood still for a moment in the midst of a breathless silence, the
red light of the stormy sunset striking across them both. Everything was
red, the smoke-clouds rising from the sullen, burning marsh, into which
the fire was still eating far away; the waters of the Blythe brimful
with the tide that had just turned toward the sea, the snow and ice
itself. Even the triangle of wild swans brought by the hard weather from
the northern lands looked red as they pursued their heavy and majestic
flight toward the south, heedless of man and his affairs beneath.

Not long did these remain heedless, however, since, either to show his
skill or for some other purpose of his own, Grey Dick lifted his bow and
loosed an arrow, almost, it seemed, at hazard. Yet that arrow pierced
the leader of the flock, so that down it came in wide circles, and in
a last struggle hovered for a moment over the group of men, then fell
among them with a thud, the blood from its pierced breast bespattering