The spectators could not avoid cheering him at this, but the cheer was feeble.
“The tall man is losing wind,” cried one in a disappointed tone.
“I feared his legs were too long,” observed another. Most of the people, however, looked on in anxious silence.
“I did not think he would give in so easily,” murmured little Maikar regretfully.
“He has not given in yet,” returned the captain, with a satisfied nod. “See—he pulls up!”
This was true. To the unbounded surprise of the spectators, Bladud had actually stopped a moment to tighten his belt at the beginning of the tenth round. Then, to their still greater amazement, he put on what we may call an Olympic spurt, so that he overtook his rival in less than a quarter of a minute; passed him easily, ran over the rest of the course at a rate which had not been equalled since Old Albion was created, and passed the winning-post full five hundred yards in advance of Gunrig, amid yells of delight and roars of laughter, which continued for some time—bursting forth again and again as the novelty and surprise of the thing became more and more forced home to the spectators’ minds.
“You have met more than your match to-day, Gunrig,” remarked the king, with a laugh, as the defeated man strode angrily up to the platform.
“I have met foul play,” replied the chief angrily. “He pretended that he could not run, else would I have put on more force. But it matters not. I will have another opportunity of trying him. Meanwhile, there is yet the heavy stone to throw. How now, wench?” he added, turning fiercely on Branwen, who had nearly hidden her face in her shawl, “do you try to hide that you are laughing at me?”
Poor Branwen was in anything but a laughing mood. She was too much afraid of the fiery chief for that, and had merely covered her face, as a modern beauty might drop her veil, to avoid his gaze.
The fair-haired Hafrydda, however, was not so timid, her smile was evidently one of amusement at his defeat, which angered him all the more.