aim, a fierce struggle, which, strange to say, as it went on, grew
absolutely pleasant.

The women shrieked to their lovers to part the combatants, but in
vain.

'Not for worlds! A very fair match and a very fair fight! Take
your long legs back, Itho, or they will be over you! That's right,
my Smid, don't use the knife! They will be overboard in a moment!
By all the Valkyrs, they are down, and Smid undermost!'

There was no doubt of it; and in another moment Philammon would have
wrenched the bill out of his opponent's hand, when, to the utter
astonishment of the onlookers, he suddenly loosed his hold, shook
himself free by one powerful wrench, and quietly retreated to his
seat, conscience-stricken at the fearful thirst for blood which had
suddenly boiled up within him as he felt his enemy under him.

The onlookers were struck dumb with astonishment; they had taken for
granted that he would, as a matter of course, have used his right of
splitting his vanquished opponent's skull--an event which they would
of course have deeply deplored, but with which, as men of honour,
they could not on any account interfere, but merely console
themselves for the loss of their comrade by flaying his conqueror
alive, 'carving him into the blood-eagle,' or any other delicate
ceremony which might serve as a vent for their sorrow and a comfort
to the soul of the deceased.

Smid rose, with a bill in his hand, and looked round him-perhaps to
see what was expected of him. He half lifted his weapon to strike