“You were always a hot-head, Gunrig,” replied the king, with a grim smile. “But have your way. Only it does not follow that if you lose the day I will give my child to the conqueror.”
“Be that as you choose,” said Gunrig, “I am now ready.”
As he spoke the fiery chief grasped his shield, leaped down into the arena and drew his sword.
Bladud was not slow to follow. In those days action usually followed close on the heels of purpose, and as the laws of chivalry had not yet been formulated there was no braying of trumpets or tedious ceremonial to delay the combat.
“Oh! I do hope he will conquer,” whispered the Princess Hafrydda to her dark-eyed companion, “and save me from that horrid man.”
“I hope so too,” returned Branwen, in a subdued voice, “but—”
She stopped abruptly, and a blush deepened the rich colour of her cheek, which she sought to conceal by drawing her shawl still closer over it. This was needless, for the clash of swords at the moment, as the combatants met in deadly conflict, claimed the exclusive attention of the damsels, and caused the entire concourse to press close around the barricades with eager interest.
“A strange way to mark his home-coming,” muttered Captain Arkal, thrusting himself as near to the scene of action as possible, closely followed by Maikar, who, being little, kept easily in his wake.
“He knows well what he’s about,” returned the little man, whose admiration for Bladud was great, and his belief in him unbounded.
Maikar was one of those men—of whom there are no doubt thousands—who powerfully appreciate, almost venerate, and always recognise, the spirit of justice when displayed by their fellows, although they may not always be aware of the fact that they do recognise it—hence his belief in the prince.