The expression of the Rowski’s face, as, bareheaded, he glared on his enemy with fierce bloodshot eyeballs, was one worthy of a demon.  The imprecatory expressions which he made use of can never be copied by a feminine pen.

His opponent magnanimously declined to take advantage of the opportunity thus offered him of finishing the combat by splitting his opponent’s skull with his curtal-axe, and, riding back to his starting-place, bent his lance’s point to the ground, in token that he would wait until the Count of Eulenschreckenstein was helmeted afresh.

“Blessed Bendigo!” cried the Prince, “thou art a gallant lance:  but why didst not rap the Schelm’s brain out?”

“Bring me a fresh helmet!” yelled the Rowski.  Another casque was brought to him by his trembling squire.

As soon as he had braced it, he drew his great flashing sword from his side, and rushed at his enemy, roaring hoarsely his cry of battle.  The unknown knight’s sword was unsheathed in a moment, and at the next the two blades were clanking together the dreadful music of the combat!

The Donnerblitz wielded his with his usual savageness and activity.  It whirled round his adversary’s head with frightful rapidity.  Now it carried away a feather of his plume; now it shore off a leaf of his coronet.  The flail of the thrasher does not fall more swiftly upon the corn.  For many minutes it was the Unknown’s only task to defend himself from the tremendous activity of the enemy.

But even the Rowski’s strength would slacken after exertion.  The blows began to fall less thick anon, and the point of the unknown knight began to make dreadful play.  It found and penetrated every joint of the Donnerblitz’s armor.  Now it nicked him in the shoulder where the vambrace was buckled to the corselet; now it bored a shrewd hole under the light brissart, and blood followed; now, with fatal dexterity, it darted through the visor, and came back to the recover deeply tinged with blood.  A scream of rage followed the last thrust; and no wonder:—­it had penetrated the Rowski’s left eye.

His blood was trickling through a dozen orifices; he was almost choking in his helmet with loss of breath, and loss of blood, and rage.  Gasping with fury, he drew back his horse, flung his great sword at his opponent’s head, and once more plunged at him, wielding his curtal-axe.

Then you should have seen the unknown knight employing the same dreadful weapon!  Hitherto he had been on his defence; now he began the attack; and the gleaming axe whirred in his hand like a reed, but descended like a thunderbolt!  “Yield! yield!  Sir Rowski,” shouted he, in a calm, clear voice.

A blow dealt madly at his head was the reply.  ’Twas the last blow that the Count of Eulenschreckenstein ever struck in battle!  The curse was on his lips as the crushing steel descended into his brain, and split it in two.  He rolled like a log from his horse:  his enemy’s knee was in a moment on his chest, and the dagger of mercy at his throat, as the knight once more called upon him to yield.