But then was it shown what might there is in activity, what resistless power in quickness. For, leaping and bounding round the heavy giant, like a sword-player, letting him waste his every blow on the empty air or in the impassive sawdust, Aradas plied his sword like a thrasher's flail, dealing every blow at his neck and the lacings of his casque, till fastening after fastening broke, and it was clear that d'Oilly, too, would be unhelmed in a few more moments.
The excitement of the people was ungovernable; they danced in their seats, they shouted, they roared. No heralds, no pursuivants, no men-at-arms, could control them. The soul of the people had awakened, and what could fetter it?
Still, wonderful as they were, the exertions of Aradas, completely armed in heavy panoply, were too mighty to last. The thing must be finished. Down came the trenchant blade with a circling sweep, full on the jointed-plates of d'Oilly's new-fangled gorget. Rivet after rivet, plate after plate, gave way with a rending crash; his helmet rolled on the ground. He stood bare-headed, bare-throated, unarmed to the shoulders.
But the same blow which unhelmed d'Oilly disarmed Aradas. His faithless sword was shivered to the hilt; and what should he do now, with only that weak, short estoc, that cumbrous dagger, against the downright force of the resistless double-handed glaive?
Backward he sprang ten paces. The glittering estoc was in his right, the short massive dagger in his left. He dropped on his right knee, crouching low, both arms hanging loosely by his sides, but with his eye glaring on his foeman, like that of the hunted tiger.
No sooner had Sir Foulke rallied from the stunning effects of the blow, and seen how it was with him, his enemy disarmed, and, as it seemed, at his power, than a hideous sardonic smile glared over his lurid features, and he strode forward with his sword aloft, to triumph and to kill. When he was within six paces of his kneeling adversary, he paused, measured his distance—it was the precise length for one stride, one downright blow, on that bare head, which no earthly power could now shield against it.
There was no cry now among the people—only a hush. Every heart stood still in that vast concourse.
"Wilt die, or cry 'craven?'"
The eye of Aradas flashed lightning. Lower, he crouched lower, to the ground. His left hand rose slowly, till the guard of his dagger was between his own left, and his enemy's right eye. His right hand was drawn so far back, that the glittering point of the estoc only showed in front of his hip. Lower, yet lower, he crouched, almost in the attitude of the panther couchant for his spring.
One stride made Sir Foulke d'Oilly forward; and down, like some tremendous engine, came the sword-sweep—the gazers heard it whistle through the air as it descended.