Next instant, however, his blade had slipped into the fatal notch, there was a sharp cracking sound with a tinkling upon the ground, and he found a splintered piece of steel fifteen inches long was all that remained to him of his weapon.
"Your life is in my hands!" cried Tranter, with a bitter smile.
"Nay, nay, he makes submission!" broke in several squires.
"Another sword!" cried Ford.
"Nay, sir," said Harcomb, "that is not the custom." "Throw down your hilt, Edricson," cried Norbury.
"Never!" said Alleyne.

"Do you crave my pardon, sir ?" "You are mad to ask it." "Then on guard again!" cried the young squire, and sprang in with a fire and a fury which more than made up for the shortness of his weapon.

It had not escaped him that his opponent was breathing in short, hoarse gasps, like a man who is dizzy with fatigue.

Now was the time for the purer living and the more agile limb to show their value.

Back and back gave Tranter, ever seeking time for a last cut.