For a while the combatants aired their dexterity, contenting themselves with cunning cuts and flicks of the sword-edge, in which Werner first drew blood by a keen sweep along the forehead of the Goshawk.  Guy had allowed him to keep his position on the board, and still fought at his face and neck.  He now jerked back his body from the hip, and swung a round stroke at Werner’s knee, sending him in retreat with a snort of pain.  Before the Baron could make good his ground, Guy was level with him on the board.

Werner turned an upbraiding howl at his men.  They were not disposed to second him yet.  They one and all approved his personal battle with Fate, and never more admired him and felt his power; but the affair was exciting, and they were not the pillars to prop a falling house.

Werner clenched his two hands to his ponderous glaive, and fell upon Guy with heavier fury.  He was becoming not unworth the little womanly appreciation Margarita was brought to bestow on him.  The voice of the Water-Lady whispered at her heart that the Baron warred on his destiny, and that ennobles all living souls.

Bare-headed the combatants engaged, and the headpiece was the chief point of attack.  No swerving from blows was possible for either:  ward, or take; a false step would have ensured defeat.  This also induced caution.  Many a double stamp of the foot was heard, as each had to retire in turn.

‘Not at his head so much, he’ll bear battering there all night long,’ said Henker Rothhals in a breathing interval.  Knocks had been pretty equally exchanged, but the Baron’s head certainly looked the least vulnerable, whereas Guy exhibited several dints that streamed freely.  Yet he looked, eye and bearing, as fresh as when they began, and the calm, regular heave of his chest contrasted with Werner’s quick gasps.  His smile, too, renewed each time the Baron paused for breath, gave Margarita heart.  It was not a taunting smile, but one of entire confidence, and told all the more on his adversary.  As Werner led off again, and the choice was always left him, every expression of the Goshawk’s face passed to full light in his broad eyes.

The Baron’s play was a reckless fury.  There was nothing to study in it.  Guy became the chief object of speculation.  He was evidently trying to wind his man.

He struck wildly, some thought.  Others judged that he was a random hitter, and had no mortal point in aim.  Schwartz Thier’s opinion was frequently vented.  ‘Too round a stroke—­down on him!  Chop-not slice!’

Guy persevered in his own fashion.  According to Schwartz Thier, he brought down by his wilfulness the blow that took him on the left shoulder, and nigh broke him.  It was a weighty blow, followed by a thump of sound.  The sword-edge swerved on his shoulder-blade, or he must have been disabled.  But Werner’s crow was short, and he had no time to push success.  One of the Goshawk’s