“This will do.  We will see which of us is to go back to Sexberga.”

“Why, you will,” said I, thinking that he had some device by which he might be free from my presence.  “I spoil company for you both, and will go back to the hall by the lower track presently.”

“You have spoilt company long enough,” he said, his face growing very savage of a sudden.  “Now I will end it, one way or the other.”

“What is this foolishness?” I said, seeing now what he meant.

“You know well enough,” he answered with a great oath.  “Pluck out that fine sword of yours and show that you can do more than talk of using it.”

“Come, Eldred,” said I, “I have not deserved this.”

“You deserve all that I shall give you,” he answered, drawing his sword.  “Stand up like a man.”

Now it seemed very hard to me that all these friendships should be broken and spoilt by this foolish business, as they would be if either of us was hurt; and so I tried to quiet him yet once more.

“Eldred, listen to reason,” I said.  “I have done you no wrong.  Tell me of what you complain.”

Thereat he only cursed, bidding me draw and cease prating.

“I will not fight you thus,” I said, for he was growing over wild to fight well for himself.  “Let us find some to attend us and watch the business, that neither of us may be blamed.  It is ill to slay a man in a hidden place like this with none to say that the fight was fair.”

“You are afraid,” he said sneeringly.

“You must ask Relf if that is likely,” said I, for I would not be angered by his angry words.  “But I do not care to risk blame to you or me.  Nought is gained by fighting thus.”

“Ask Relf, forsooth!” he snarled.  “I care not to hear again how you lay hid in the pit yonder while others fought.”

“Have a care, Eldred,” I said then.  “You grow heedless in your anger, and go too far.  I do not think that you mean this.”

“Do you need to be called nidring {12}?” he snarled at me.

Now none heard that word pass between us, and though it made me bitterly angry I kept my wrath back.  Truly I began to think that I was foolish to argue with him; but there would be grief, lifelong, at Penhurst if deadly harm befell either of us where none could say that all was fairly fought out.

“Are you not going?” he said in a choking sort of way.

“No,” I said, “not until I know what all this is about.”

“What good in going over that again?” he answered.  “You know well enough.  Let me be—­you have won.”

“I know,” said I; “but you have not told me aught.  I can only guess that you think that I have taken your place with Sexberga.”

“Aye—­and now you have won it.”

“I want it not,” I answered.  “Had you not been so angry you would have known that, when I bid you go back and meet her without me.”

Now he looked at me with a sort of doubt, and said, in a somewhat halting way: