"And if I slew him, as thou didst mine, what then?"
A mighty blow was the reply, and the two drawing their swords, fell to work—the deadly work.
And by their sides a canine battle took place, a wolf-hound, which accompanied the stranger, engaged the boar-hound of the Baron.
Oh! how they strove; how blow followed blow; how the horses seemed to join in the conflict, and tried to bite and kick each other with their rampant fore-feet; how the blades crashed; how thrust, cut, and parry, succeeded each other.
But Norman skill prevailed over English strength, and the Englishman fell prone to the ground, with a frightful wound on the right shoulder, while his horse galloped round and round in circles.
And meanwhile the opposite result took place in the struggle between the quadrupeds: the wolf-hound had slain the boar-hound. Brian would fain have avenged his favourite, but the victor avoided his pursuit, and bow and arrows had he none, nor missile of any kind, for he had accidentally left his hunting spear behind.
He looked at his foe who lay stretched on the turf, bleeding profusely. Then dismounting, he asked sternly—
"Say what thou didst with my boy!"
"Strike; thou shalt never know."
And Brian would have struck, but his opponent fell back senseless, and he could not strike him in that condition: something restrained his hand.