“There,” said De Lacy, waving his hand.

The squire swung noiselessly into saddle.

“Shall we stop them?” he asked.

“Of course—­be ready if they show fight.”

Suddenly Dauvrey’s horse threw up his head and whinnied.  At the first quaver, De Lacy touched Selim and rode out into the moonlight toward the strangers, who had stopped sharply.

“Good evening, fair sirs,” said he; “you ride late.”

“Not so; we are simply up betimes,” replied one, “and therefore, with your permission, since we are in some haste, we will wish you a very good morning and proceed.”

“Nay, be not so precipitate.  Whither away, I pray, at such strange hours and over such strange courses?”

“What business is it of yours,” exclaimed he who had first spoken, “whether we come from the clouds?  Out of the way, or take the consequences,” and he flashed forth his sword.

“You are hardly courteous,” replied Aymer, “and therefore scarce angels in disguise, even though you prate of the clouds.  So if you wish to measure blades I shall not balk you.  Nathless,” as he slowly freed his own weapon, “it is a quarrel not of my making.”

“Will you let us pass then?” said the stranger.

“I never said I would not; I but asked your destination.”

“And I refused to answer—­stand aside.”

“Nay, nay! do not get excited,” said De Lacy calmly.  “Consider a moment; you ask all and grant nothing.  I wish to know whither you ride—­you wish to ride.  It is only a fair exchange.”

“It is very evident that you are seeking a quarrel,” the other exclaimed; “and by the Holy Saints! you have found it.  I shall ride on, and if it be over your carcass, on your head be it.”

“I have seen a few dead bodies in my time, fair sir,” replied Sir Aymer with a laugh, “but never one that stood upon its head.  It is a pity then I may not see my own.”

The stranger made no reply, but settling himself well in saddle charged in.  De Lacy, without changing position further than to drop the reins over the saddle bow, so as to leave both hands free to wield his sword, awaited the rush.  Saving a thin corselet of steel beneath his doublet, he wore no armor; and as his antagonist was, outwardly at least, entirely unprotected, a single stroke of the heavy weapons would likely decide the matter.

For a space, De Lacy contented himself with parrying the blows aimed at him and with blocking the other’s advance.  Repeatedly he could have ended the fight, but always he forebore.  The man was no possible match for him, and with soldierly generosity he hesitated either to kill or to wound grievously one who showed so much pluck and grit even when the struggle was plainly lost.  He was waiting the opportunity to disarm him.

“Will you not yield?” he asked at last, as again he brushed aside the other’s weapon.

The only answer was a swinging blow that just missed his forehead.