“Is it so?” cried Assueton, his blood boiling at the intelligence; “then, by the Rood of St. Andrew, he shall not hence until I shall have questioned him for his villainy.”
He stayed not to say more, but, galloping forward, he reined up his steed in the middle of the way, and instantly addressed the opposite leader.
“Halt!” cried he, in a voice of thunder; “halt, Sir Knight, if yet thou mayest deserve a title so honourable; for, of a truth, [[169]]thou dost not, if thou art he whom I take thee to be. Say, art thou, or art thou not, that malfaitour Sir Miers de Willoughby?”
“Though I see no cause why I should respond to a rude question rudely put, yet will I never deny my name,” replied the other, “I am so hight. And now, what hast thou to say to Sir Miers de Willoughby?”
“That he no longer deserves to be called a knight, but rather a caitiff robber,” replied Assueton.
“Robber!” retorted the other; “dost thou call me robber, that dost wear my baldrick and bugle hanging from thy shoulder?”
“Thine!” replied Assueton; “if they be thine, ’tis well thou hast noted them so; I wear them as the gage of my revenge; and I have sworn to wear them until thou payest dearly for the wrong thou hast done to the virtuous Lady Isabelle Hepborne, for I speak not of the base treachery thou didst use towards myself.”
“Nay, then,” replied de Willoughby, “it seems thou art determined that we shall do instant battle. Come on, then.”
And so saying, he put his lance in the rest and ran his course at Assueton. The Scottish Knight couched his, and, exclaiming aloud, “May God and St. Andrew defend the right,” he put spurs to his horse and rushed at his opponent. They met nearly midway. Sir Miers de Willoughby’s lance glanced aside from Assueton’s cuirass, without doing the firmly-seated knight the smallest injury; but Assueton’s point entering on one side, between the joinings of Sir Miers’ helmet and neck-piece, bore him headlong from his saddle, and stretched him, grievously wounded, on the plain. Meanwhile, before Assueton had time to recollect himself, on came the party of de Willoughby, and, with the natural impression that he would dismount to put their leader to death, charged him en masse. His own spearmen rushed to his rescue, but, before they came, he had so well bestirred himself that he had prostrated three or four of the enemy. The battle now became general; but though the numbers were on the other side, yet the victory was very soon achieved by the prowess of Assueton and his people, who left not a man before them; all, save one only, being either thrown to the ground or forced to seek safety in flight.
That one, however, was Ralpho Proudfoot, who at the first onset had singled out Robert Lindsay, with a bloody thirst of long-cherished hatred. Their spears having been splintered in the shock, he had grappled Lindsay by the neck, and the latter seizing his antagonist in his turn, they were both at once dragged [[170]]from their horses. Rising eagerly at the same moment, however, they drew their swords and attacked each other. Some of Lindsay’s comrades having now no antagonist of their own to oppose, were about to assist him.