"A broken neck," thought Prosper, cursing his luck. Galors never
moved. "What an impassive rogue it is!" Prosper cried, with all his
anger clean gone from him. He dismounted and went to where his man
lay, threw his sword on the grass beside him, and proceeded to unlace
Galors's hauberk. Galors sprang up and sent Prosper flying; he set his
heel on the sword blade and broke it short. Then he turned his own
upon the unarmed man. "By God, the man is for a murder!" Prosper grew
white with a cold rage: he was on his feet, the flame of his anger
licked up his poverty: Galors had little chance. Prosper made a quick
rush and drove at the monk with his shield arm, using the shield like
an axe; he broke down his guard, got at close quarters, dropt his
shield and caught Galors under the arms. They swayed and rocked
together like storm-driven trees, Prosper transported with his new-
lighted rage, Galors struggling to justify his treachery by its only
excuse. Below his armpits he felt Prosper's grip upon him; he was
encumbered with shield and sword, both useless--the sword, in fact,
sawing the air. Then they fell together, Prosper above; and that was
the end of the bout. Prosper slipped out his poniard and drove it in
between the joints of the gorget. Then he got up, breathing hard, and
looked at his enemy as he lay jerking on the grass, and at the bright
stream coming from his neck.

"The price of treachery is heavy," said he. "I ought to kill him. And
there are villainies behind that to be reckoned with, to say nothing
of all the villainies to do when that hole shall be stuffed. The
shield--ah, the shield! No, monk, on second thoughts, I will not kill
you yet. It would be dealing as you dealt, it would prevent our
meeting again; it would cut me off all chance of learning the history
of your arms. White wicket-gates! Where, under heaven's eye, have I
been brought up against three white wicket-gates? Ha! there is a motto