For a time the young warrior paid no attention to the reproaches which I launched at him. After a time, however, he seemed to think that it was necessary, for his honour, to give proof of his valour; and, halting, he turned his horse's head, put his sword under his arm after the manner of a lance, and charged me with all his might, hoping to transfix me.
But he was disappointed. I saw my danger in an instant, and taking my sword by the handle, and exerting all my skill and dexterity, I contrived not only to elude the thrust of my adversary, but, in passing, to strike his sword to the ground.
But here I lost myself. In fact, I failed to follow up my advantage with sufficient speed, and my antagonist, springing nimbly from his steed, ere I was aware of his purpose, repossessed himself of his weapon, and placed himself on the defensive. My blood by this time was again up; and I had already resolved that, if no accident intervened, he should not depart from me on easy terms. But he, believing, doubtless, that, as I was on the winning side, the danger of delay was almost, if not altogether, on his, looked around with the air of one eager to escape from a conflict likely to result in captivity.
"Frenchman," said I, "it is vain to dream of escape. We part not till we have proved which is the better man."
"Who are you that follow me thus?" asked my adversary, apparently astonished at my persistency.
"I am an Englishman, and page to my lord the Prince of Wales," answered I, "and I mortally hate him whom the French call king; and as there can, therefore, be no peace between thee, as a Frenchman, and myself, I pray thee look to thy defence."
"In truth," replied the youth, "I am not, as you deem me, a Frenchman, but Louis, son of the Count of Flanders, and merely fighting against the English as an ally of the King of France."
"Louis of Flanders!" exclaimed I. "By the Holy Rood, so much the worse for you! Ever has your sire been England's bitter foe; and it behoves every Englishman worthy of his country, as I hold myself to be, to avenge, on your head, the blood of Jacob von Arteveldt, who, by your father's instigation, was barbarously murdered."
"Dog of an islander!" cried the young prince, stung to fury, and brandishing his sword, "I cannot longer brook your insolence. Dismount, and receive the chastisement you have provoked."
As he spoke, I leaped from my steed. Instantly our swords met, and we engaged in hand-to-hand conflict—he attacking with all the energy which rage could inspire, and I defending myself with the determination inspired by the hope of making a captive almost worth his weight in gold.