The outer door stood thrown wide open, and the night wind was swinging it back and forth upon its rusty hinges, producing most mournful melody.  Surprised at so unusual a circumstance, he approached the portal, and looked out into the courtyard.  Before him upon the pavement were a dozen mailed warriors, mounted, armed to the teeth, and motionless as statues.  The pale moon shone upon their polished helms and corselets, giving them a most spectre like and supernatural appearance.  They stood directly before the arched barbacan, which formed the entrance to the court, and appeared waiting for the warder, to lower the drawbridge over the moat, for their exit.  Without expressing any astonishment at the strange scene thus presented to him, Conrad D’Amboise glided from his post, and favored by the shadows of the frowning battlements, gained a postern in an angle of the wall, and stealthily left the court.

Above a quarter of an hour had elapsed after his departure, when the perfidious knight who had confronted him at the banquet, issued from the unclosed portal, bearing in his arms the drooping form of Joan Du Bois.  Striding hastily across the pavement, and putting himself at the head of the armed men in the court, he hailed the warder at the gate.

“Ho, there!  Lower the drawbridge and give us exit!”

The bolts were drawn, and the chains clanked, as the bridge came rattling down across the gloomy pass.

“On!  Spare not the spur!” and suiting the action to the word, the knight drove his spurrowels deep into his horse’s flanks.  With a single vault the steed cleared the ditch, and as he came down upon his feet, stood front to front with a horseman in armor as black as night.  By his side rode Conrad D’Amboise, and in the rear was a small retinue led by a mounted lady.

“Stand! thou stain upon knight-errantry, thou curse of Templars, and receive thy just reward!” shouted the sable knight, while his blade flashed in the moonbeams.

Paralyzed with astonishment, the false Templar slowly drew his weapon, while the followers of both knights drew back to watch the combat.  Delivering the senseless Joan Du Bois to a retainer, the Templar knight plunged fiercely down upon his opponent, cutting left and right at his visor and corselet, in his progress.  The black warrior parried the murderous strokes with infinite skill, and as his antagonist was employed in drawing his rein to check his steed, dealt him a blow upon the bridle arm, which split his mail and caused his limb to drop useless by his side.  Infuriated with pain, and bursting with the conflict of all the savage passions of his nature, the Templar now struck with the ferocity of a madman.  Blows were hailed down with most fearful vigor upon the armor of both, and great chips of steel were struck sparkling from the polished mail.  Clang!  Clang!-now the black champion is about to hurl his sword with awful force against the Templar’s shoulder-the false villain’s horse becomes unmanageable-he rushes forward towards Conrad D’Amboise, whirling his sword wildly in the air. ’