What was this mummery?  Why was he a spectacle for that mob?  All the blood rushed to Paul’s head and the little pulses in his temples began to beat like hammers.  He looked at Alvarez, but the Spaniard had turned his face into a stony mask, and he could read no meaning there.  Then he looked at Braxton Wyatt, and the renegade’s countenance plainly expressed malignity and triumph.

The great shout that greeted the entrance of Paul died away to a silence so heavy that it seemed ominous.  Then Francisco Alvarez looked toward the wooden building, at the far side of the ring, and raised his hand.  A gate there was thrown open, and a man, sword in hand, strolled lazily out.  Again a tremendous shout arose, and the mob pressed closer to the bars, those in front sitting on the grass and those behind standing up in order that they might look over them.

Francisco Alvarez raised his hand a second time, and instantly there was silence once more.  He was like a feudal lord dispensing justice in the open air before all his retainers.

“Kaintock,” he called in a loud voice, “since you are so expert with the sword, we give you another chance to display your skill.  Defend yourself from this champion.”

Again the approving shout of the mob arose, and Paul looked across the ring, where the swordsman had come forth.

The man was of great size, and his whole appearance reminded Paul of the ancient gladiators of whom he had read.  He seemed to be a West Indian of Spanish descent, very dark and with immense shoulders.  He wore a red shirt, which added to his strange and savage appearance.  He carried in his hand a long sword, much longer than Paul’s and when he faced the lad he suddenly grasped the hilt of his weapon in both hands and twirled it about until it made a glittering circle.  The crowd set up a shout, but Paul felt chilled through and through.

“I have no quarrel with this man,” he called to Alvarez, “and I will not fight him.”

“You have no choice,” replied Alvarez, and the more savage in the crowd, who wished to see barbaric sport, shouted their approval.  But some were silent.  Long Jim struggled with four men, and exclaimed, “It’s murder!  He’s only a boy!” But the four held him fast.

The swordsman, grinning in the certainty of easy triumph, advanced upon Paul.

Now Paul understood.  He was there to furnish sport, terrible, deadly sport, and he must fight if he would save himself.  As Alvarez truly said, no choice was left to him.  If he sprang for the barrier they would thrust him back, and that was not a thing to be endured.

Francisco Alvarez, spurred on by the sting of his wound, and urged, too, by Braxton Wyatt, who was mad for the deed the moment he heard of it, had done this wicked thing.  The strain of cruelty in his nature, inherited perhaps, from far-off ancestors who had looked upon pitiless games in the arena in the Roman cities in Spain, was completely in control.