Having at last crossed the obstacle once more, Renaud pursued Rampal at full speed, and so rapidly that, when Rampal turned to judge the distance between them, he saw Renaud hardly fifty paces behind him.
He had just time to turn about, and waited for his foe, with lance in rest, leaning forward in his saddle, his feet planted firmly in the broad stirrups.
Renaud, unluckily, was charging against the mistral. A sort of hail, consisting of sand and of the little snails that cling in myriads to the leaves of the enganes, beat into his face and angered him.
Five hundred feet away, Bernard was looking on—not saying a word, for fear of Rampal, but praying fervently for Renaud, and he fancied that he was watching two champions standing on the long ladders in the prows of the jousting boats, with their lances held firmly under their right arms. Rampal’s spear, being suddenly lowered too far by a false step of his horse, pricked the heel of Renaud’s boot and grazed Prince’s flank, whereupon he jumped violently aside, as if he were avoiding the horns of a heifer.
Renaud’s spear tore the sleeve of his enemy’s blue shirt and carried away the piece.
The horsemen met and passed each other.
Rampal was the first to turn, and rode after Renaud, ready to strike him from behind, while he was struggling to stop Prince, who had acquired too much momentum; and Prince, hearing the other horse’s hurried step, and feeling his hot breath behind him, furious at being held back, fearing that he would be overtaken, turned about so quickly and unexpectedly in his wrath, that Rampal took fright and turned again, but involuntarily.
Renaud, finding that his pursuer had once more become a fugitive, gave Prince a free rein.
The stallion was off like the wind.
The horsemen sped along, pushed on by the gusts, the wind being now behind them.