It was a misty morning in March.  Brandon has told me since, that when his elder brother took his stand, it was at once manifest that he was Judson’s superior, both in strength and skill, but after a few strokes the brother’s blade bent double and broke off short at the hilt when it should have gone home.  Thereupon, Judson, with a malignant smile of triumph, deliberately selected his opponent’s heart and pierced it with his sword, giving the blade a twist as he drew it out in order to cut and mutilate the more.

In an instant Sir William’s doublet was off, and he was in his dead son’s tracks, ready to avenge him or to die.  Again the thrust which should have killed broke the sword, and the father died as the son had died.

After this, came young Charles, expecting, but, so great was his strong heart, not one whit fearing, to lie beside his dead father and brother.  He knew he was the superior of both in strength and skill, and his knowledge of men and the noble art told him they had each been the superior of Judson; but the fellow’s hand seemed to be the hand of death.  An opening came through Judson’s unskilful play, which gave young Brandon an opportunity for a thrust to kill, but his blade, like his father’s and brother’s, bent double without penetrating.  Unlike the others, however, it did not break, and the thrust revealed the fact that Judson’s skill as a duelist lay in a shirt of mail which it was useless to try to pierce.  Aware of this, Brandon knew that victory was his, and that soon he would have avenged the murders that had gone before.  He saw that his adversary was strong neither in wind nor arm, and had not the skill to penetrate his guard in a week’s trying, so he determined to fight on the defensive until Judson’s strength should wane, and then kill him when and how he chose.

After a time Judson began to breathe hard and his thrusts to lack force.

“Boy, I would spare you,” he said; “I have killed enough of your tribe; put up your sword and call it quits.”

Young Brandon replied:  “Stand your ground, you coward; you will be a dead man as soon as you grow a little weaker; if you try to run I will thrust you through the neck as I would a cur.  Listen how you snort.  I shall soon have you; you are almost gone.  You would spare me, would you?  I could preach a sermon or dance a hornpipe while I am killing you.  I will not break my sword against your coat of mail, but will wait until you fall from weakness and then....  Fight, you bloodhound!”

Judson was pale from exhaustion, and his breath was coming in gasps as he tried to keep the merciless sword from his throat.  At last, by a dexterous twist of his blade, Brandon sent Judson’s sword flying thirty feet away.  The fellow started to run, but turned and fell upon his knees to beg for life.  Brandon’s reply was a flashing circle of steel, and his sword point cut lengthwise through Judson’s eyes and the bridge of his nose, leaving him sightless and hideous for life.  A revenge compared to which death would have been merciful.