at his enemy.

_Whish-clash_! The song of smiting steel rang through the little valley.
The spectators drew back out of the way. Again the half-drunken loungers
rose upon their elbows.

They were well matched, the two. If Alwin lacked any of the Black One's
strength, he made it up in skill and quickness. The bright steel began
to fly fast and faster, until its swish was like the venomous hiss of
serpents. The color came and went in Helga's cheek; her mouth worked
nervously. Sigurd's eyes were fixed upon the two like glowing lamps, as
to and fro they went with vengeful fury. In all the valley there was no
sound but the fierce clash and clatter of the swords. The very trees
seemed to hold their breath to listen.

Egil uttered a panting gasp of triumph; his, blade had bitten flesh. A
widening circle of red stained the shoulder of Alwin's white tunic. The
thrall's lips set in a harder line; his blows became more furious, as if
pain and despair gave him an added strength. Heaving his sword high in
the air, he brought it down with mighty force on Egil's blade. The next
instant the Black One held a useless weapon, broken within a finger of
the hilt.

A murmur rose from the three watchers. Helga's hand moved toward her
knife.

Rolf shook his head gently. "Fair play," he reminded her; and she fell
back.

Tossing away his broken blade, Egil folded his arms across his breast