Three minutes’ fighting found Croquart playing with his man. Tinteniac had not so much as flustered him. Strength and condition were all to the Fleming’s honor.
“Come, sire, surrender,” and he gave Tinteniac time to breathe.
The noble had faltered, more from faintness than from any failing of his courage. He saw Tiphaïne watching him and read the misgiving in her eyes. The pride of such a man was very sensitive. To be beaten, and to be beaten before her, by a butcher!
“Who asks for surrender?”
“In faith, sire, not I!”
“Come, then.”
And they went at it again with exuberant good-will.
An unparried blow on the right shoulder brought Tinteniac to earth at last. He struggled to his knees and tried to rise, but Croquart rolled him backward with a mere touch of the sword-point on the breast.
“Surrender, sire; I am in luck to-day.”
Tinteniac, with a last effort, turned sideways and broke his sword across his knee.