I had covered my eyes with my hand, thinking that surely the boy’s hour had come.  I removed my hand when I heard the scream, and I have thanked God ever since for prompting me to do that little act, for I saw the most beautiful sight that my eyes have ever beheld.  Calli had reached his prostrate foe and was standing over him with battle-axe uplifted to deal the blow of death.  At that same moment Yolanda sprang from the duke’s side, cleared the low railing in front of the ducal box, and jumped to the false lists six or eight feet below.  Her gown of scarlet and gold shone with dazzling radiance in the sunlight.

Calli was facing the pavilion, and Yolanda’s leap probably attracted his attention.  However that may have been—­perhaps it was because of Calli’s haste, perhaps it was the will of God—­the blow fell short, and Calli’s battle-axe, glancing from Max’s helmet, buried itself in the hard ground.  While Calli was struggling to release his axe, Yolanda cleared the low barrier of the true lists, sped across the intervening space like a flash of red avenging flame, and reached Max not one second too soon, for Calli’s axe was again uplifted.  She fell upon Max, and had the axe descended she would have received the blow.  Calli stepped back in surprise, his heel caught on the toe of Max’s iron boot, he fell prone upon his back, and the weight of his armor prevented him from rising quickly.  The glancing blow on Max’s helmet had roused him, and when he moved Yolanda rose to her knees beside him.

“Let me help you,” she cried, lifting Max’s mailed hand to her shoulder; Max did so, and by help of the frail girl he drew himself to his knees and then to his feet.  Meantime, Calli was attempting to rise.  I can still see the terrible picture.  Calli’s panting horse stood near by with drooping head.  Max’s charger lay quivering in the convulsions of death.  Calli, whose helmet had dropped from his head when he fell, lay resting on his elbow, half risen and bareheaded.  Max stood deliberately taking his battle-axe from his girdle chain, while Yolanda still knelt at his feet.  Battle-axe in hand, Max stepped toward Calli, who had risen to his knees.  The expression on the Italian’s face I shall never forget.  With bared head and upturned face he awaited the death that he knew he deserved.  Max lifted his battle-axe to give the blow.  I wondered if he would give it.  He lowered the axe, and a shout went up from the pavilion:—­

“Kill him!  Kill him!”

He lifted the axe again, and a silence like the hush of death fell upon the shouting audience.  Again Max hesitated, and I distinctly heard Yolanda, who was still upon her knees, whisper:—­

“Kill him!  Kill him!”

Then came the shouts of a thousand voices, thrilling me to the marrow:—­

“Kill him!  Kill him!” and I knew that if I were standing in Max’s shoes, Calli would die within a moment.  I also remember wondering in a flash of thought if Max were great enough to spare him.  Again the battle-axe came slowly down, and the din in the pavilion was deafening:—­