"Leave him alone, Sir Benedict," added Crowleigh. "He will make a sorry example of De la Zouch even yet."
"But," persisted the old knight, "I declare——"
His speech was rudely cut short, for with a yell of pain he darted off across the arena, closely followed by a huge mastiff, whose tail he had been unfortunate enough to tread upon.
With the doctor out of the way the conflict was speedily renewed. It was a terrible combat. De la Zouch, intent on ridding himself of his adversary, declared he would give no quarter, and, altering his tactics, he hewed and lunged away with all the temerity of a man who fights for death or victory.
Manners' superiority with the sword, however, was so apparent that after the restarting of the contest the final issue of it was never for a moment doubted, not even by the veriest tyro present. Sir Henry's wild thrusts were parried with consummate ease, and while the knight's sword moved hither and thither with lightning-like rapidity, the trusty blade of the other moved equally quick, but with far more certainty.
He waited until De la Zouch began to tire before he exerted himself. The time came at last, and then with a few quick strokes he laid his foeman before him on the ground.
"Strike!" shouted a score of voices. "Strike!"
The victor uplifted his sword, and poised it high above his head to bring it down with all his might. The people waited with throbbing hearts to witness the stroke which should finish the combat, but instead of striking Manners paused and turned round.
"Strike, man, strike!" yelled a chorus of onlookers.
Humbly bowing before Dorothy, he magnanimously declared that the fate of his rival rested with her.