at breadth of shoulder and length of arm, had cut a road almost
to the mast, with three-score Genoese men-at-arms close at his heels.
Between these two formidable assailants the seamen were being slowly
wedged more closely together, until they stood back to back under the
mast with the rovers raging upon every side of them.

But help was close at hand. Sir Oliver Buttesthorn with his men-at-arms
had swarmed down from the forecastle, while Sir Nigel, with his three
squires, Black Simon, Aylward, Hordle John, and a score more, threw
themselves from the poop and hurled themselves into the thickest of the
fight. Alleyne, as in duty bound, kept his eyes fixed ever on his
lord and pressed forward close at his heels. Often had he heard of Sir
Nigel's prowess and skill with all knightly weapons, but all the tales
that had reached his ears fell far short of the real quickness and
coolness of the man. It was as if the devil was in him, for he sprang
here and sprang there, now thrusting and now cutting, catching blows on
his shield, turning them with his blade, stooping under the swing of an
axe, springing over the sweep of a sword, so swift and so erratic that
the man who braced himself for a blow at him might find him six paces
off ere he could bring it down. Three pirates had fallen before him, and
he had wounded Spade-beard in the neck, when the Norman giant sprang at
him from the side with a slashing blow from his deadly mace. Sir Nigel
stooped to avoid it, and at the same instant turned a thrust from the
Genoese swordsman, but, his foot slipping in a pool of blood, he fell
heavily to the ground. Alleyne sprang in front of the Norman, but his
sword was shattered and he himself beaten to the ground by a second
blow from the ponderous weapon. Ere the pirate chief could repeat it,
however, John's iron grip fell upon his wrist, and he found that for
once he was in the hands of a stronger man than himself.

Fiercely he strove to disengage his weapon, but Hordle John bent his arm
slowly back until, with a sharp crack, like a breaking stave, it turned
limp in his grasp, and the mace dropped from the nerveless fingers. In
vain he tried to pluck it up with the other hand. Back and back still
his foeman bent him, until, with a roar of pain and of fury, the giant
clanged his full length upon the boards, while the glimmer of a knife
before the bars of his helmet warned him that short would be his shrift
if he moved.

Cowed and disheart