He brushed aside the frail weapon which was opposed to him, whirled up his great blade, sprang back to get the fairer sweep--and vanished into the waters of the Garonne.
So intent had the squires, both combatants and spectators, been on the matter in hand, that all thought of the steep bank and swift still stream had gone from their minds.

It was not until Tranter, giving back before the other's fiery rush, was upon the very brink, that a general cry warned him of his danger.

That last spring, which he hoped would have brought the fight to a bloody end, carried him clear of the edge, and he found himself in an instant eight feet deep in the ice-cold stream.

Once and twice his gasping face and clutching fingers broke up through the still green water, sweeping outwards in the swirl of the current.

In vain were sword-sheaths, apple-branches and belts linked together thrown out to him by his companions.