Swartz was biting his beard.
“What—there is no man here who can stand up to a monk! Big Harry, there: have a swash at him with your pole-ax.”
Big Harry had the face and temper of a bull. He made a rush along the bridge, swung his pole-ax, and struck at Martin’s head. The salade threw the point aside, and the shaft struck Martin’s shoulder. He had shortened his sword and thrust hard at the big man. The point went through Big Harry’s midriff, and the mere hid a third victim.
Swartz rolled out of the saddle and drew his sword.
“Stand back! This fellow is too good for such raw cattle. I have fought many fights in my time.”
Then Martin did a knightly thing. He went to meet Swartz, crossing the beam, so that they met on the broad causeway where neither man could claim any advantage.
Swartz saluted him.
“I take that to heart, my friend. It was gallantly thought of. One word before we fight it out like gentlemen. Who the devil are you?”
Martin kept silent.
“You will not tell me? I must find it out for myself. Good. And so—to business.”