With a howl of pain and rage the savage sprang round and charged him a second time.  Again Aziel leapt to one side, but now he struck with all his force at the spear shaft which his assailant lifted to guard his head.  So strong was the blow and so sharp the heavy sword, that it shore through the wood, severing the handle from the spear, which fell to the ground.  Casting away the useless shaft, the warrior drew a long knife from his girdle, and before Aziel could strike again faced him for the third time.  But he no longer rushed onward like a bull, for he had learnt caution; he stood still, holding the skin cloak before him shield fashion, and peering at his adversary from over its edge.

Now it was Aziel’s turn to take the offensive, and slowly he circled round the huge barbarian, watching his opportunity.  At length it came.  In answer to a feint of his the protecting cloak was dropped a little, enabling him to prick its bearer in the neck, but only with the point of his sword.  The thrust delivered, he leapt back, and not too soon, for forgetting his caution in his fury, the savage charged straight at him with a roar like that of a lion.  So swift and terrible was his onset that Aziel, having no time to spring aside, did the only thing possible.  Gripping the ground with his feet, he bent his body forward, and with outstretched arm and sword, braced up his muscles to receive the charge.  Another instant, and the leopard skin cloak fluttered before him.  With a quick movement of his left arm he swept it aside; then there came a sudden pressure upon his sword ending in a jarring shock, a flash of steel above his head, and down he went to the ground beneath the weight of the black giant.

“Now there is an end,” he thought; “Heaven receive my spirit.”  And his senses left him.

When they returned again, Aziel perceived dimly that a white-draped figure bent over him, dragging at something black which crushed his breast, who, as she dragged, sobbed in her grief and fear.  Then he remembered, and with an effort sat up, rolling from him the corpse of his foe, for his sword had pierced the barbarian through breast and heart and back.  At this sight the woman ceased her sobbing, and said in the Phoenician tongue:—­

“Sir, do you indeed live?  Then the protecting gods be thanked, and to Baaltis the Mother I vow a gift of this hair of mine in gratitude.”

“Nay, lady,” he answered faintly, for he was much shaken, “that would be a pity; also, if any, it is my hair which should be vowed.”

“You bleed from the head,” she broke in; “say, stranger, are you deeply wounded.”

“I will tell you nothing of my head,” he replied, with a smile, “unless you promise that you will not offer up your hair.”

“So be it, stranger, since I must; I will give the goddess this gold chain instead; it is of more worth.”

“You would do better, lady,” said the shrill voice of Metem again, who by now had found his wits again, “to give the gold chain to me whose scalp has been broken in rescuing you from that black thief.”