“Ha!” cried Sir Reginald, “the golden circlet!  Henry of Trastamare himself!” and at the same instant he sprang to the ground.  “You,” said he, “speed round the bushes, meet me at the ford they are making for.”  This was directed to Gaston, and ere the last words were spoken, both Sir Reginald and Eustace were already beginning to hurry down the bank.  Gaston rose to his full height in his stirrups, and, looking over the wood, exclaimed, “The Eagle crest!  I must be there.  On, Ashton—­Ingram, this way—­speed, speed, speed!” and with these words threw himself from his horse, and dashed after the two brothers, as they went crashing, in their heavy armour, downwards through the boughs.  In less than a minute they were on the level ground, and Sir Reginald rushed forward to intercept Don Enrique, who was almost close to the river.  “Yield, yield, Sir King!” he shouted; but at the same moment another Knight on foot threw himself between, raising a huge battle-axe, and crying, “Away, away, Sir; leave me to deal with him!” Enrique turned, entered the river, and safely swam his horse to the other side, whilst his champion was engaged in desperate conflict.

The Knight of Lynwood caught the first blow on his shield, and returned it, but without the slightest effect on his antagonist, who, though short in stature, and clumsily made, seemed to possess gigantic strength.  A few moments more, and Reginald had fallen at full length on the grass, while his enemy was pressing on, to secure him as a prisoner, or to seize the pennon which Eustace held.  The two Squires stood with lifted swords before their fallen master, but it cost only another of those irresistible strokes to stretch Gaston beside Sir Reginald, and Eustace was left alone to maintain the struggle.  A few moments more, and the Lances would come up—­but how impossible to hold out!  The first blow cleft his shield in two, and though it did not pierce his armour, the shock brought him to his knee, and without the support of the staff of the pennon he would have been on the ground.  Still, however, he kept up his defence, using sometimes his sword, and sometimes the staff, to parry the strokes of his assailant; but the strife was too unequal, and faint with violent exertion, as well as dizzied by a stroke which the temper of his helmet had resisted, he felt that all would be over with him in another second, when his sinking energies were revived by the cry of “St. George,” close at hand.  His enemy relaxing his attack, he sprang to his feet, and that instant found himself enclosed, almost swept away, by a crowd of combatants of inferior degree, as well as his own comrades as Free Lances, all of whose weapons were turned upon his opponent.  A sword was lifted over the enemy’s head from behind, and would the next moment have descended, but that Eustace sprang up, dashed it aside, cried “Shame!” and grasping the arm of the threatened Knight, exclaimed, “Yield, yield! it is your only hope!”