"A man-at-arms?" said Richard. "He faceth this way. I may not let him stop me. I will close my visor and be ready for what may come."
He shut his helmet tightly and lowered his lance, loosening also the battle-axe at his saddle bow. He had need, for the strange man-at-arms uttered no warning, but dashed suddenly forward with lance in rest. 'Twas but the fortune of tourney, for the foeman rode well and he was large. His lance point glanced from the helmet of the young messenger, while Richard smote him full upon the breast.
Splintered to the hand was the lance, but the stranger reeled in the saddle, and before he could recover himself Richard had wheeled, axe in hand.
"In the king's name!" he shouted, "what doest thou with the king's messenger?"
Down came the battle-axe, striking the bridle arm of the stranger, so that while he drew his sword with his right hand he could not manage his horse.
"For the king!" shouted Richard.
"Down with thee, thou cub of Wartmont!" roared the stranger angrily. "I will take thy messages. Ha!"
'Twas a good blow, but it stopped upon the shield of the Neville, while once more the axe fell heavily with the curvet of Richard's horse. Sore wounded upon one thigh was now the man-at-arms, and his steed plunged viciously to one side.
"I will have thee!" he shouted, but his sword swept vainly through the air, while Richard charged again.
"Thy helm this time!" he muttered as his axe came down.