“I presume not to ask thee to fight on foot, noble sir,” said Du Guesclin, hesitatingly, “but thou seest I have no horse, and——”
“Nay, if that be all, it is soon mended,” cried Sir Nicholas. “Ho there! bring hither quickly my brown destrier” (war-horse).
The steed was brought, Bertrand mounted, and the knights hurtled together like contending whirlwinds.
Both spears flew crashing in a thousand splinters, and both steeds were thrown back on their haunches; but the riders kept saddle and stirrup, though it seemed to the lookers-on as if Dagworth, good knight as he was, had been rudely shaken.
Sir Nicholas took a new lance from his esquire, and Du Guesclin cried to the nearest English man-at-arms—
“Lend me thy lance, good fellow. I promise thee I will not shame it.”
“Take it and welcome, good sir,” said the stout spearman, heartily; “and wert thou fighting any but an Englishman, I would wish thee good speed!”
Bertrand laughed good-humouredly, and, wheeling his horse, dashed at his foe once more.
This time the result was not in doubt for a moment. Du Guesclin reeled in his saddle, and his horse all but fell; but as the dust of the shock subsided, Sir Nicholas was seen lying motionless on the earth.
Down leaped Du Guesclin, and, taking the fallen man by the hand, said earnestly—