"Not us! Well, I never; that be a good 'un. But I'll have some of
their fine harness and gew-gaws, if I swing for it."
"Tush, man! thou canst have them easy enough; but 'tis their lives first
we must have. He's sure to be there. He makes such a stir about him;
all the more since this wound of his. Curse the weak stroke! why
couldn't it have gone home?" broke off the esquire bitterly.
"Ay, ay, 'twas a bungling business that. He was but a greenhorn at that
sort of work, whoever he was," said the seaman, eyeing Bowerman with a
grim twinkle in his bleared eyes, as he went on furbishing up a steel
breastpiece. "But he's a fine youth, that I will say," he added.
Magdalen changed her position so as to get a view of the faces of the
speakers, but trying to draw as little attention to herself as possible.
She noticed a flush pass over Bowerman's face as he bit his lip, but
said nothing, only he felt the edge of a sword he had been scouring.
"We'll make better work of it, Simon, this time--eh?"
"Faith we will, or you may call me landlubber for the rest of my days.
I owe him a grudge for having had me put in the stocks for nothing at
all. 'Tis a chance will never come again. Think of his being such a
fool as to trust hisself alone in a fight with our master. But he won't
live long to repent it, if I get this knife into him," added the man,
with an ugly "job" of the blade into a balk of timber on which he was
sitting.
Magdalen shuddered. What were they talking about? She dreaded to
think. There was something terrible going to take place. How should
she find out? She resolved to ask her father. She stepped past the two
men, and entered the cave. She found her father busied with the unusual
and difficult operation of writing. He took no notice of her, and she
sat still by his side, watching him laboriously forming his awkward
letters.
"Father, can't I help you?" she ventured to say at last.
"What, little wench, you here still? I thought you were gone long
since. What will the worthy Prioress say?"
"Oh, she won't mind; she bid me stay as long as I could help thee. But
Sister Agnes looks most after me."
"Ay, and who is Sister Agnes? But there," seeing the child was going to
enter upon a long account of her doings at the nunnery, "I am parlous
busy now. Thou canst stay an thou mindest, and in the evening Bowerman
can see thee on thy way home."
This was not at all to Magdalen's taste.
"But may I not aid thee now, father? Thou knowest I can write; and I
have become a better scribe lately?"
"Hast thou so, my little wench?" said her father, stroking her head.
"But these are matters beyond thee." He paused, and then went on.
"Magdalen, my child, thou wilt always be a good girl, and do what the
worthy Prioress tells thee. If aught taketh me away, thou wilt mind
what I have said, and there will be those who will care for thee. Thou
must learn to look kindly on Master Bowerman, and thy fortunes may one
day be happier than now seemeth likely. But leave me now; I must settle
these matters, and the time is not over long."
Magdalen, well knowing the reserved nature of her father, and not caring
for the escort of Master Bowerman, especially after what she had
overheard, resolved to go back to the nunnery; but she also made up her
mind she would see the Hermit of St Catherine's on her way, and tell him
of her anxiety.
She therefore took leave of her father, who seemed more affectionate
than usual; and declining Bowerman's offer of accompanying her, she
climbed the difficult path up the cliff, and disappeared over the brow
of the gorge.
*CHAPTER XX.*
*HOW THE CAPTAIN KEPT TRYST.*
It was about a month after the tourney, when Ralph, who had entirely
recovered from his wound, was summoned to attend the Captain of the
Wight.
On entering the Lord Woodville's room, he found that nobleman standing
before the fire in a contemplative attitude, and Ralph stood for a few
moments in respectful silence.
Presently Lord Woodville looked up, and, noticing Ralph, resumed at once
his usual manner.
"My young esquire," he said, "I have sent for thee because there is no
one of my household whom I can trust more than thee."
Ralph coloured up with pleasure; he noticed with pride the change of
title. He was no longer a page, but esquire to his lord. But what went
to his heart far more than this was being addressed in such affectionate
and trusting terms. Lord Woodville had won the boy's heart from the
first by his noble bearing, handsome appearance, and lonely life. In
the midst of a gay and martial household, always dignified, placid, and
reserved, Lord Woodville seemed to him like some hero of romance, some
knight-templar who had consecrated his life to God, and, unlike the
common herd of monks, who withdrew from the world in timidity or selfish
sloth, he remained in it to face the temptations, the pleasures, and the
vices, and to face them not merely as an idle spectator, but as a
splendid protest against the vanity of the world. Not pledged or bound
by any such bonds as those by which weaker mortals sought to guard
themselves from the allurements of life; not fleeing for protection to
the feeble chains of monastic institutions, or even the semi-monastic
life of the great military order which alone survived, but like a stout
pinnacle of indestructible granite round which some stream for ever
dashes its ceaseless waves, now striving to wear it away with the soft
embrace and gentle murmurs of its softly wooing current, then dashing
against the calm rock in the wild tumult of its turbid waters, and
seeking to topple it from its base with the rage of its fierce turmoil,
so stood out the life of the Lord Woodville in its tranquil strength.
Outwardly cold, but inwardly burning with the desire of martial fame;
always the first in all warlike enterprise; a strict disciplinarian, but
a most kind and gentle knight to all in distress or suffering, the
Captain of the Wight was the beau ideal of a _preux chevalier_. In
every battle of the fierce civil wars he had shown himself a daring
man-at-arms, as well as a prudent chieftain, and, like his accomplished
brother, he was devoted to the arts in times of peace. He was a strict
observer of the religious life of the times, and although not blind to
the many shortcomings of the clergy, yet he did all in his power to
promote the influence of religion, and to improve all with whom he came
in contact.
A deep sorrow had fallen upon him in his domestic relations. His
gallant father, the Earl of Rivers, together with his brother, Sir John
Woodville, had been beheaded barbarously by the orders of the great Earl
of Warwick. His brilliant brother, the Lord Scales, died under the
executioner's sword at the cruel mandate of Richard, Duke of Gloucester,
for no other crime than attachment to his nephews and his widowed
sister. His two nephews had perished, no man knew how, in the Tower of
London; and he himself had been blighted in his affections at an early
age. His mother had laboured under the accusation of sorcery and
witchcraft--a most dangerous charge in those days. His sister, the
lovely Elizabeth Woodville, was mistrusted by the cold and calculating
Henry; while his niece, the young and still more beautiful Elizabeth,
although consort of the King, was not yet crowned Queen, in spite of
having been married more than a year and a half, and having borne an
heir to the two rival houses.
To relieve his active mind and vigorous frame from these anxieties, the
Captain of the Wight welcomed every chance of wielding his sword or
plying his lance in the stern excitement of war.
At this moment there was going on across the water a contest which had
peculiar fascinations for a chivalrous mind. The aged and weak Francis,
Duke of Brittany, with his young daughter, the celebrated Anne, the
future wife of two kings, and mother of one Queen of France, was now
being besieged by the whole force of that kingdom. The English King was
repeatedly solicited to bring or send over assistance, and he was
strongly tempted to interfere in the quarrel, on the urgent grounds of
private gratitude and national policy; but, only just secured on his
throne by a victorious battle over a desperate enemy, and well aware how
many secret foes he had, Henry VII. was unwilling to draw upon himself
the active hostility of France, as well as the perpetual machinations of
the Dowager Duchess of Burgundy. He therefore listened to the
ambassadors of both the contending powers, but publicly refused to
interfere by men or money.
Many, however, of Henry's subjects, tired of inaction, and early inured
to arms, longed to take part in the struggle, and no one believed that
the King would really be sorry if private adventurers undertook what he
was prevented from doing ostensibly from reasons of State policy.
The Lord Woodville was well acquainted with the cautious, cold, and
calculating disposition of Henry VII. He had known him in exile, when
they both fled to the hospitable Court of the Duke of Brittany, where
the young Earl of Richmond had given promise of his virtues and his
faults, and he had little doubt that, although he would forbid publicly
any interference in the wars in Brittany, he would secretly be grateful
to any one who would help to save that province from becoming an actual
part of France, and thus inflict another blow on England's hereditary
enemy. For no one then doubted that whatever weakened a neighbour was a
gain to oneself.
The Captain of the Wight had lately pondered deeply over these matters,
and he was urged by his inclination, as well as by motives of ambition,
to take part in this struggle. He was also influenced by a strong
impulse. His life had latterly become well nigh unbearable. Old
memories of the lady he had loved so ardently had been strangely
stirred. He had been strongly reminded of her by the face of the nun.
He knew he was accused by his lost love's husband of having received her
when she fled from her home--driven away by her own misery and the
cruelty of her husband. Pledged to each other by mutual affection in
early youth, Sir Edward Woodville had been separated by the animosities
of the time, and his own want of fortune, from the object of his
youthful love. Her father, a fierce Lancastrian, had died in the
merciless battle of Towton, and the young lady, by the death of her
father now become a ward of the Crown, was given, as a reward for his
support, to young George Lisle, who had disobeyed his father, and taken
part in the civil wars, on the side of the White Rose. The young
esquire was knighted by Edward IV. on the battlefield, and from that
time forward was first in tilt and fight, and the most devoted of the
adherents of the House of York. But as the marriage was the result of
compulsion on the one side, and of ambition on the other, no happiness
could ensue; and the neglect of the husband, combined with his fierce
temper and ungovernable ways, acting upon the passionate disposition of
his wife, who fought against her destiny like some imprisoned bird
against the bars of its cage, caused such misery to result, that at
last, after the birth of an only daughter, the wretched wife fled, no
one knew whither; but all men who knew her story suspected to her old
love, Sir Edward Woodville, who was in exile. The successful fight of
Bosworth Field reversed the situation, and the husband had to become the
exile in turn, while Sir Edward Woodville, restored to his rank and
position, succeeded his murdered brother in the lordship of the Wight.
The two rivals had never met since the marriage, excepting once, about a
month after that event. It was at a tournament, and Sir Edward
Woodville purposely chose the opposite side to that on which Sir George
Lisle was challenger. The shock was fierce, and both knights were
unhorsed; but Sir Edward Woodville, in the second encounter, hurled his
antagonist from the saddle, and carried off the prize of the tourney.
After this, Sir Edward Woodville was employed on affairs of State which
kept him away from the Court, and during the whole of the last reign he
had resided abroad.
Equally with the rest of the world he was ignorant as to what had become
of Lady Lisle; and although he was well aware that he was credited with
aiding in her flight, and, indeed, of secretly providing her with a
refuge, he was far too haughty to take any steps to contradict this
statement, merely contenting himself by remarking that, 'if men wished
to believe lies, certes he could not prevent them.'
"Ralph," said Lord Woodville, "I have need of a trusty esquire. I have
noticed thy hardihood and devotion to me; wouldst thou wish to be put
still more to the proof?"
"My lord, only try me; there is naught I would not do in thy service."
"Then, my fair esquire, as thou art now full strong again, and art in
good trim to ride forth in harness, at ten o' the clock this evening
thou must be on the road to Gatcombe, armed _cap-a-pie_, and mounted on
thy stoutest charger. Thou wilt wait there, at about a mile from the
castle, until I meet thee, and wilt go forth with me where I shall lead.
It may be a dangerous service; that, I know well, will only make thee
all the more wishful to go. But I would not willingly imperil thy young
life, and I fain trust there is naught that will do thee hurt. Thou
must tell no man, and prepare thee for the coming venture. Go now,
therefore, and take rest, eat well, and make all ready against the time
appointed."
Full of joyful pride at the thought of his lord's confidence, and
delighted at the prospect of the mysterious adventure to be undertaken
alone with the Captain of the Wight, Ralph retired.
"Why, Ralph, how joyous thou seemest," said Dicky Cheke, whom he met in
the courtyard. "What's come to thee, man?"
But Ralph only gaily twitched his ear in passing, and went out to the
stables to look at his horse, his favourite, White Willie. The injury
to his other war-horse was so severe that it was still unfit for
service, and those learned in horse-flesh gave it as their opinion that
it was doubtful whether he could ever be of use again.
Although very careful search had been made for Eustace Bowerman, he had
not been seen or heard of since the night of the attempt on Ralph's
life. In the inquiry that followed, the fact of Newenhall having given
Ralph the message which sent him to the gate told very greatly against
that young man. Asked to explain, he said he was told to give the
message to Ralph by an unknown man; and when asked to describe the
stranger, he said it was so dark he could not make him out. As all this
was very unsatisfactory, and as his conduct was totally unsuited to a
page or esquire in the service of so martial a chief as the Captain of
the Wight, Newenhall had been dismissed, and was now, much to the
delight of the other pages, enjoying the tranquillity of his own home.
Two new pages had lately come to take the place of Bowerman and
Newenhall, who were merry, high-spirited boys, and with whom Dicky Cheke
and Maurice Woodville got on very much better. Ralph had so greatly
distinguished himself that he was far removed over the heads of the
others, and, had it not been for his naturally sweet disposition, might
have become spoilt by such rapid advancement.
The rest of the day was passed by Ralph in carefully examining his arms.
Humphrey had seen to everything during the time his young master was
laid by, and all the parts of his armour, or harness, as it was called,
were in first-rate condition. In addition to his sword and lance, Ralph
took a beautifully-made and accurately-weighted _martel de fer_, or
mace, a most deadly weapon for close combat, where its keen and powerful
edges, combined with its weight, told terribly in breaking up an
opponent's armour.
As the hour approached, Ralph's impatience became more and more
uncontrollable, and in order to hide it, he went for a stroll on the
castle battlements.
It was now the second week in November. The weather had been mild for
the time of year. As Ralph stepped out into the courtyard, he noticed
that the moon, now at its first quarter, was rising over Mountjoy's
Tower, projecting the shadow of its well-proportioned battlements across
the quadrangle. A yellow haze round the moon gave signs of a change in
the weather, and the breeze seemed to come keener over the north-east
wall, causing the ivy to rustle and the vane over the chapel belfry to
creek and rattle. As the young esquire paused, a melodious boom vibrated
on his ear. It was the big bell of Quarr Abbey sounding the curfew.
"The wind is in the east," thought Ralph; "there will be snow anon; but
'tis time Humphrey came to arm me. I marvel he cometh not. Ah, there
he is," he added, and joyfully turned to go to his room.
The arming did not take long, and clad in complete steel, wearing a
plain tabard, with only the red cross of St George on it, like any other
man-at-arms, Ralph strode down to the hall door. He had told no one of
his coming expedition, and had carried out his lord's commands as to
secrecy implicitly.
Humphrey soon brought round his noble war horse, and the young esquire
mounted immediately.
How exciting it seemed to him as the horse's iron shoes clanked over the
drawbridge, and he heard the massive chains grating over the wheels as
it was drawn up again. He rode out into the misty night, and turned his
horse's head southward.
This was the first time in his life he had gone forth on a service of
danger fully armed and prepared to face a foe. There was something
thrillingly exciting in this night adventure alone with the Captain of
the Wight. What could it mean? What danger could there be? And why,
if there were any, should he, the lord of the island, go forth attended
but by one esquire to affront it alone? The delight of uncertainty and
mystery hung round the future, and heightened still more the glory of
being the only sharer in his Captain's peril. Ralph felt he could dare
anything in the presence and on behalf of such a master.
He had now reached a lonely part of the rough track which had been his
road on the night when he was so nearly being dashed to pieces over the
edge of that cliff. Ralph had not visited the place since, and the
whole adventure seemed more than ever like a dream. As he recalled the
circumstances, his thoughts reverted to the tournament, and as he
thought, he suddenly recollected the curious episode of the little
glove. He had never before dreamt of connecting the wearing of that
glove with his success in the tilt. It now all came before him, and he
pondered deeply on the strange circumstance. While thus lost in
thought, he did not notice the distant sound of a horse's hoofs, and was
abruptly recalled to life by seeing a steel-clad figure gleaming in the
moonlight coming steadily towards him.
With the prompt action of one well trained in the skill of a
man-at-arms, Ralph grasped his lance, which he had hitherto been
carrying slung behind him, and placed it in rest, holding his horse in
readiness to charge, and wheeling him round so as to face the newcomer,
for he could not tell whether he were friend or foe.
But in another moment he brought his lance to its erect position again,
and saluted his lord. It was the Captain of the Wight. He was fully
armed, and wore a tilting helmet, but perfectly plain, only a little
ribbon fluttered in the breeze from the spike on the crown of the helm.
He looked a splendid figure of knightly grace and strength, as he sat
with perfect seat his powerful horse. Round his gorget was suspended
his shield, but there was no blazon on it, and he wore no tabard or
surcoat over his magnificent suit of ribbed Milanese armour. The light
of the moon gleamed on his steel helmet, his globular corslet, and the
taces cuisses, or thigh pieces, and steel jambs which protected his
legs. He carried his long lance slung from his right arm, and the butt
resting in a socket at his right stirrup.
"Well met, Master Lisle," called out Lord Woodville through his closed
helm. "Thou art true to tryst; 'tis a fair promise of thy worth. But
haste we onward. I would be loth to be last in the field."
Wheeling his horse round, Ralph rode after his lord, keeping at a
respectful distance. In this way they rode for some three miles, when
the Lord Woodville called to Ralph to come up.
"My son," he said gravely, "I have sure trust in thee, as I have told
thee before; that is why I have brought thee with me. As no man knoweth
what may be in store for him, I have left on my table, in a casket of
wrought metal, a missive. In case aught should befall me, thou wilt
ride back, and have a care to take that casket with the missive to
Appuldurcombe Nunnery, and leave it for Sister Agnes. Thou
comprehendest perfectly? But whatever befalls, bear in mind that no
word of what I have told thee get to other ears."
Ralph promised obedience, and they once more lapsed into silence.
After riding steadily for some two miles more, Lord Woodville left the
beaten track, and descending a steep slope in the downs, from which the
open sea was visible in all its sparkling beauty, he rode along a
secluded dell towards the bold height of St Catherine's down. Having
reached an old withered thorn-bush which grew in weird loneliness by the
sedgy bank of a little stream, the Captain of the Wight halted.
"Certes, we are on the ground first: I see no signs of aught living."
Ralph scanned the surrounding landscape. There was a haze abroad,
hindering the view for any distance. All he could see was a level sward
extending towards the sea, and of considerable width, covered with close
herbage, and admirably suited for a tilting match, forming a natural
list.
Meanwhile the Lord Woodville had dismounted, and was tightening his
horse's girths.
"Pace thy horse down the centre of yon lawn, Ralph," said his lord, "and
when thou hast ridden some bow-shot length, turn back, but mark well the
ground, to see if it be rough or swampy."
Ralph did as he was bid.
"There is not a hole or spongy place anywhere, my lord," he said, as he
returned to Lord Woodville.
"Aha! here they come--but," said the Captain of the Wight, "I did not
count on more than one."
As he spoke, Ralph looked round and saw four figures approaching. Two
were mounted, and two were on foot. The mounted figures were also in
complete armour, and Ralph had an impression that he had seen both
before.
Lord Woodville mounted the moment he saw the new-comers approaching, and
rode slowly forward to meet them, at the same time bringing his lance
round, and holding it on his hip in readiness for use. Ralph having no
orders, thought it best to imitate his chief, and holding his lance
prepared for instant action, he followed the Captain of the Wight. When
the two little groups had approached within speaking distance, Lord
Woodville reined up, and lowered his lance in courteous salute to the
knight opposite him--a courtesy the latter returned with much formality.
Ralph noticed that the man-at-arms, who rode a little behind his chief,
reined up his horse out of hearing of Lord Woodville, and appeared to be
giving some directions to the two foot men, who seemed well-armed,
sturdy knaves. He determined to keep a close watch on the movements of
these latter, especially as he thought he recognised them as the same
men who had attended on the unknown knight, and one of whom seemed
intimate with Bowerman.
*CHAPTER XXI.*
*OF THE COMBAT *_*A OUTRANCE*_*.*
After the Captain of the Wight and the stranger knight had gravely
saluted each other, there was a pause. The silence was broken by Lord
Woodville.
"Sir Knight," he said, "you have challenged me to mortal combat. You
have flung charges in my teeth that are false and foul. You have
aspersed the name which you, of all men, ought most to reverence, and
yet, rebel as you are, you have put yourself in my hands as Captain for
the King. I come here as plain Edward Woodville, knight and simple
gentleman. The Captain of the Wight has laid aside his authority to give
the lie to your words, and to prove on your body the truth of his. But
before we try the judgment of battle, for the sake of one who is utterly
free from the vile taunts you have flung forth, I would fain tell you
that as that moon floats pure and serene in yonder azure sky, so that
name is as unsullied, and that life as chaste. If you are still fain to
try the hazard of battle, maugre my solemn statement, here am I ready to
meet you, as man to man, and may Heaven defend the right. Thou well
knowest thou hast done to me the cruellest wrong one man can do to
another on this earth. Thou hast blighted two lives, and thou wouldst
defame them as well. If any man longed for vengeance, 'twere certes I
who ought to pray for it. Yet, Heaven knoweth, I harbour no thoughts of
revenge, and I would be well content that thou and I should never meet.
Thou hast taken a bold step, and one that doeth credit to my knightly
honour more than all thy base aspersions have done to assail it, by
coming to my government, and putting thyself in my power, well knowing
that for a private wrong no belted knight who deserved the name would
use the power of his office to wreak vengeance on a personal foe by
means of the authority given him by the King. But in sparing a fugitive
from Stoke field, and in not handing him up to the royal power, I may be
tried for my life, and lose all worldly renown in a traitor's death.
Knowing this, thou hast put it to the hazard, and to wreak vengeance on
me hast cared naught that in sparing thee I am running the chance of
dying on the block. Trusting to my chivalry, and safe from my
authority, because thou knewest I would use no power over thee but such
as my own arm and stout lance could give me, thou hast yet dared to
jeopardise my life and fame, only to meet me in mortal fight. Sir
Knight, thou hast done ill, but no worse than thou hast done in all thy
life."
The strange knight listened silently to the Lord Woodville. He waited
to hear if he were going to say more; but after a little pause, seeing
that the Captain of the Wight had finished his speech, he replied,
briefly and bitterly,--
"Sir Edward Woodville--commonly called Lord Woodville,--I am here to
fight, not to bandy words. I believe thou art a full worshipful knight,
and therefore I did thee the honour of trusting to thy courtesy, and I
was not mistaken; but as for what thou sayest, I believe not one word.
Well know I that the trained and pretty merlin will return to the hand
of him who trained her--while even the lanner will go back at the call
of the lure. Say no more. That thou hast left me unmolested, I thank
thee; for the ill thou hast done, I hate thee, and mean on thy body to
take full vengeance for mine own dishonour. Let us waste no more words,
but begin; I scorn thee, hate thee, and thirst to be revenged on thee."
No more words were spoken. The two knights wheeled round their horses,
and paced back a sufficient distance. Then turning about, they faced
each other.
The scene looked strange and spectral. The moon, blurred by a flitting
mist, which flickered over its face, shone down on the ghostly figures
of the gleaming horsemen. The two esquires, encased, like their lords,
in complete harness, sat motionless on their horses a little behind the
chief actors in the coming duel. The dark forms of the two foot men
were dimly to be seen to the left of the horsemen; while beyond the
silent group, the grey sea stretched away and away until it seemed to
rise to the leaden clouds which hung like a livid pall beneath the
silvery moon. On either side rose the dim downs, and over all a light
mist clung to the shimmering landscape, making the weird figures seem
more phantomlike in their faint and misty vagueness. There was nothing
human in the scene. The grim forms, the strange-shaped helmets, the
utter absence of all external signs of life in those steel-cased
horsemen, their powerful chargers weirdly hidden in polished steel, all
combined to make them look like huge monsters of a far-gone age returned
to visit by the pale moonlight the haunts of their prehistoric life.
Only the steam from the nostrils of the warhorses gave the least sign of
actual existence to the scene. Around were the everlasting hills;
beyond, the ever restless sea; above, the infinite vault of space, with
the scarred and blighted face of the vapourless moon looking down on the
puny strife of men whose little lives and passions are to the universe
but as the indistinguishable pulses of the tiniest of microbes or as the
froth of a bubble floating in infinity.
Without waiting for any word, the two knights, as if by a common
impulse, clapped spurs to their chargers, and with lance in rest, and
bodies well down under their shields, rode fiercely for each other.
This was no gentle tilt with blunted lances, but each knight knew his
existence was at stake, and that in the keen thrust of the gleaming
spear-point lay life or death. They met in a hurtling crash, and the
noise of splintering wood and clanging metal rang through the silence of
the night. For a moment no one knew what had happened; but as the two
horses broke away, it was seen that they trotted off without their
riders.
Scarcely waiting to see what had happened, Ralph caught his lord's
war-horse, and returned to his place. Eagerly he looked to see what had
been the result. One knight had risen from the ground; the other was
attempting to do so, but only feebly moved. Ralph rode nearer, and the
other three figures advanced also. The excitement in Ralph's heart was
intense: what should he do if his dearly loved lord were slain? A fierce
thought rose. He would hurl himself on the others, and either avenge
his master, or die in the attempt.
But as he drew nearer, his bitter anxiety was changed to joy. It was
Lord Woodville who was on his feet, and standing over the writhing body
of his antagonist.
"Yield thee, Sir George Lisle!" said the Captain of the Wight, in a
stern, but feeble voice.
"I yield to no man!" came back the fierce answer, still more faintly
hissed through the closed helm. "Do thy worst!"
For a moment Lord Woodville seemed uncertain what to do. He held his
keen poignard in his left hand, and his drawn sword in the other, and
held the point of it to the narrow opening in the close-shut helm.