On a sudden Osmund attacked, desperately apprehensive of his own cowardice.  Camoys lightly eluded him and slashed at Osmund’s undefended thigh, drawing much blood.  Osmund gasped.  He flung away his sword, and in the instant catching Camoys under the arms, threw him to the ground.  Messire Heleigh fell with his opponent, who in stumbling had lost his sword, and thus the two struggled unarmed, Osmund atop.  But Camoys was the younger man, and Osmund’s strength was ebbing rapidly by reason of his wound.  Now Camoys’ tethered horse, rearing with nervousness, tumbled his master’s flat-topped helmet into the road.  Osmund caught up this helmet and with it battered Camoys in the face, dealing severe blows.

“God!” Camoys cried, his face all blood.

“Do you acknowledge my quarrel just?” said Osmund, between horrid sobs.

“What choice have I?” said Gui Camoys, very sensibly.

So Osmund rose, blind with tears and shivering.  The Queen bound up their wounds as best she might, but Camoys was much dissatisfied.

“For private purposes of His own, madame,” he observed, “and doubtless for sufficient reasons, God has singularly favored your cause.  I am neither a fool nor a pagan to question His decision, and you two may go your way unhampered.  But I have had my head broken with my own helmet, and this I consider to be a proceeding very little conducive toward enhancing my reputation.  Of your courtesy, messire, I must entreat another meeting.”

Osmund shrank as if from a blow.  Then, with a short laugh, he conceded that this was Camoys’ right, and they fixed upon the following Saturday, with Poges Copse as the rendezvous.

“I would suggest that the combat be to the death,” Gui Camoys said, “in consideration of the fact it was my own helmet.  You must undoubtedly be aware, Messire Osmund, that such an affront is practically without any parallel.”

This, too, was agreed upon.

Then, after asking if they needed money, which was courteously declined, Gui Camoys rode away, and sang as he went.  Osmund Heleigh remained motionless.  He raised quivering hands to the sky.

“Thou hast judged!” he cried.  “Thou hast judged, O puissant Emperor of Heaven!  Now pardon!  Pardon us twain!  Pardon for unjust stewards of Thy gifts!  Thou hast loaned this woman dominion over England, with all instruments to aid Thy cause, and this trust she has abused.  Thou hast loaned me life and manhood, agility and wit and strength, all instruments to aid Thy cause.  Talents in a napkin, O God!  Repentant we cry to Thee.  Pardon for unjust stewards!  Pardon for the ungirt loin, for the service shirked, for all good deeds undone!  Pardon and grace, O King of kings!”

Thus he prayed, while Gui Camoys sang, riding deeper into the tattered, yellowing forest.  By an odd chance Camoys had lighted on that song made by Thibaut of Champagne, beginning Signor, saciez, ki or ne s’en ira, which denounces all half-hearted servitors of Heaven; and this he sang with a lilt gayer than his matter countenanced.  Faintly there now came to Osmund and the Queen the sound of Camoys’ singing, and they found it, in the circumstances, ominously apt.