He unbuckled his own gold-mounted weapon and forced it into Alwin’s hands, then turned authoritatively to the Wrestler:  “Rolf, if you count yourself my friend, lend me your sword.”

It was yielded him silently; and they stepped out face to face, the young noble and the young thrall.  But before their steel had more than clashed, Egil came between and knocked up their blades with his own.

“It is enough,” he said gruffly.  “What Sigurd Haraldsson will do, I will not disdain.  I will meet you honorably, thrall.  But you need not sue for mercy.”  A gleam of that strange groundless hatred played over his savage face.

It did not daunt Alwin; it only helped to warm his blood.  “This steel shall melt sooner than I ask for quarter!” he cried defiantly, springing at his enemy.

Whish-clash!  The song of smiting steel rang through the little valley.  The spectators drew back out of the way.  Again the half-drunken loungers rose upon their elbows.

They were well matched, the two.  If Alwin lacked any of the Black One’s strength, he made it up in skill and quickness.  The bright steel began to fly fast and faster, until its swish was like the venomous hiss of serpents.  The color came and went in Helga’s cheek; her mouth worked nervously.  Sigurd’s eyes were fixed upon the two like glowing lamps, as to and fro they went with vengeful fury.  In all the valley there was no sound but the fierce clash and clatter of the swords.  The very trees seemed to hold their breath to listen.

Egil uttered a panting gasp of triumph; his, blade had bitten flesh.  A widening circle of red stained the shoulder of Alwin’s white tunic.  The thrall’s lips set in a harder line; his blows became more furious, as if pain and despair gave him an added strength.  Heaving his sword high in the air, he brought it down with mighty force on Egil’s blade.  The next instant the Black One held a useless weapon, broken within a finger of the hilt.

A murmur rose from the three watchers.  Helga’s hand moved toward her knife.

Rolf shook his head gently.  “Fair play,” he reminded her; and she fell back.

Tossing away his broken blade, Egil folded his arms across his breast and waited in scornful silence; but in a moment Alwin also was empty-handed.

“I do no murder,” he panted.  “Man to man we will finish it.”

With lowered heads and watchful eyes, like beasts crouching for a spring, they moved slowly around the circle.  Then, like angry bears, they grappled; each grasping the other below the shoulder, and striving by sheer strength of arm to throw his enemy.

Only the blood that mounted to their faces, the veins that swelled out on their bare arms, told of the strain and struggle.  So evenly were they matched, that from a little distance it looked as if they were braced motionless.  Their heels ground deep into the soft sod.  Their breath began to come in labored gasps.  It could not last much longer; already the great drops stood on Alwin’s forehead.  Only a spurt of fury could save him.