“No blood drawn,” said my brother, “but no more fighting can there be. The man’s arm is out.”
And so it was, for the mighty heave that turned the thrust had ended Griffin’s fighting for a long day. But he did not think so.
The sweat was standing on his face in great beads from the pain, but he got up and shifted his sword to his left hand.
“It is to the death,” he cried; “I can fight as well with the left. Stand aside.”
“An it had been so, you were a dead man now,” said Havelok, “for the earl held his hand where he might have slain. If he had chosen, you might have felt his axe before you touched the ground.”
Thereat, without warning other than a snarl of “Your own saying,” Griffin leapt at my brother fiercely, only to meet a swing of his axe that sent his sword flying from his hand. And that was deft of Havelok, for there is nothing more hard to meet than a left-handed attack at any time, and this seemed unlooked for.
“Well, I did say somewhat of this sort,” said Havelok; “but it was lucky that I had not forgotten it.”
Then he took the thane by the waist and left arm and set him down gently; and after that all the fury went from him, and he grew pale with the pain of the arm that was hurt. But both I and the Welshmen had shouted to Griffin to hold, all uselessly, so quick had been his onset on his new foe.
Cadwal held his peace, biting his lip, but the other Welshman began to blame Griffin loudly for this.
“Nay,” said Havelok, smiling; “it was my own fault maybe. The thane was overhasty certainly, but one does not think with pain gnawing at one. Let that pass.