"Sir Arnold de Curboil, it is now full three days since I saw you treacherously kill my father."
Sir Arnold started and turned half round in the saddle, his olive skin suddenly white with anger; but the soft fresh colour in Gilbert's cheek never changed.
"Treacherously!" cried the knight, with indignation and with a questioning tone.
"Foully," answered Gilbert, with perfect calm. "I was not twenty paces from you when you met, and had I not been hampered by a Frenchman of your side, who was unreasonably slow in dying, I should have either saved my father's life or ended yours, as I mean to now."
Thereupon Gilbert brought his horse to a stand and prepared to dismount, for the sward was smooth and hard and there was room enough to fight. Sir Arnold laughed aloud as he sat still in the saddle, watching the younger man.
"So you have brought me here to kill me!" he said as his mirth subsided.
Gilbert's foot was already on the ground, but he paused in the act of dismounting.
"If you do not like the spot," he answered coolly, "we can ride farther."
"No, I am satisfied," answered the knight; but before he had spoken the last word he broke into a laugh again.
They tied up their horses to trees at a little distance, out of reach of one another, and Gilbert was the first to return to the ring of open ground. As he walked, he drew his father's sword from its sheath, slipped the scabbard from the belt, and threw it to the edge of the grass. Sir Arnold was before him a moment later; but his left hand only rested on the pommel of his sheathed weapon, and he was still smiling as he stopped before his young adversary.