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 swooping under-hits half severed his right wrist, and the blood spirted across the board.  He gasped and seemed to succumb, but held to it still, though with slackened force.  Guy now attacked.  Holding to his round strokes, he accustomed Werner to guard the body, and stood to it so briskly right and left, that Werner grew bewildered, lost his caution, and gave ground.  Suddenly the Goshawk’s glaive flashed in air, and chopped sheer down on Werner’s head.  So shrewd a blow it was against a half-formed defence, that the Baron dropped without a word right on the edge of the board, and there hung, feebly grasping with his fingers.

‘Who bars the way now?’ sang out Guy.

No one accepted the challenge.  Success clothed him with terrors, and gave him giant size.

‘Then fare you well, my merry men all,’ said Guy.  ’Bear me no ill-will for this.  A little doctoring will right the bold Baron.’

He strode jauntily to the verge of the board, and held his finger for Margarita to follow.  She stepped forward.  The men put their beards together, muttering.  She could not advance.  Farina doubled his elbow, and presented sword-point.  Three of the ruffians now disputed the way with bare steel.  Margarita looked at the Goshawk.  He was smiling calmly curious as he leaned over his sword, and gave her an encouraging nod.  She made another step in defiance.  One fellow stretched his hand to arrest her.  All her maidenly pride stood up at once.  ‘What a glorious girl!’ murmured the Goshawk, as he saw her face suddenly flash, and she retreated a pace and swung a sharp cut across the knuckles of her assailant, daring him, or one of them, with hard, bright eyes, beautifully vindictive, to lay hand on a pure maiden.

‘You have it, Barenleib!’ cried the others, and then to Margarita:  ’Look, young mistress! we are poor fellows, and ask a trifle of ransom, and then part friends.’

‘Not an ace!’ the Goshawk pronounced from his post.

‘Two to one, remember.’

‘The odds are ours,’ replied the Goshawk confidently.

They ranged themselves in front of the hall-door.  Instead of accepting this challenge, Guy stepped to Werner, and laid his moaning foe length-wise in an easier posture.  He then lifted Margarita on the board, and summoned them with cry of ‘Free passage!’ They answered by a sullen shrug and taunt.