The knight picked up his shield.

“I know you,” he said.  “I am not he you think.”

“And I know you,” answered Hugh.  “Now, no words, of them there have been enough between us,” and he smote at him.

For two minutes or more they fought, for the armour of both was good, and one was full of rage and the other of despair.  There was little fine sword-play about this desperate duel; the light was too low for it.  They struck and warded, that was all, while Grey Dick stood by and watched grimly.  Some more fugitives came up, but seeing that blows passed, veered off to the left, for of blows they had known enough that day.  The swan knight missed a great stroke, for Hugh leapt aside; then, as the Frenchman staggered forward, struck at him with all his strength.  The heavy sword, grasped in both hands, for Hugh had thrown aside his shield, caught his foe where neck joins shoulder and sank through his mail deep into the flesh beneath.  Down he went.  It was finished.

“Unlace his helm, Dick,” grasped Hugh.  “I would see his face for the last time, and if he still lives——­”

Dick obeyed, cutting the lashings of the helm.

“By the Saints!” he said presently in a startled voice, “if this be Sir Edmund Acour he has strangely changed.”

“I am not Acour, lord of Noyon,” said the dying man in a hollow voice.  “Had you given me time I would have told you so.”

“Then, in Christ’s name, who are you?” asked Hugh, “that wear de Noyon’s cognizance?”

“I am Pierre de la Roche, one of his knights.  You have seen me in England.  I was with him there, and you made me prisoner on Dunwich heath.  He bade me change arms with him before the battle, promising me great reward, because he knew that if he were taken, Edward of England would hang him as a traitor, whereas me they might ransom.  Also, he feared your vengeance.”

“Well, of a truth, you have the reward,” said Dick, looking at his ghastly wound.

“Where then is Acour?” gasped Hugh.

“I know not.  He fled from the battle an hour ago with the King of France, but I who was doomed would not fly.  Oh, that I could find a priest to shrive me!”

“Whither does he fly?” asked Hugh again.

“I know not.  He said that if the battle went against us he would seek his castle in Italy, where Edward cannot reach him.”

“What armour did he wear?” asked Dick.

“Mine, mine—­a wolf upon his shield, a wolf’s head for crest.”

Hugh reeled as though an arrow had passed through him.

“The wolf knight, Acour!” he groaned.  “And I spared his life.”

“A very foolish deed, for which you now pay the price,” said Dick, as though to himself.

“We met in the battle and he told me,” said de la Roche, speaking very slowly, for he grew weak.  “Yes, he told me and laughed.  Truly we are Fate’s fools, all of us,” and he smiled a ghastly smile and died.