king. "Sir Sagramore, ye will
grant him leave to borrow."

"And I will lend!" said Sir Launcelot, limping up. "He is as
brave a knight of his hands as any that be on live, and he shall
have mine."

He put his hand on his sword to draw it, but Sir Sagramor said:

"Stay, it may not be. He shall fight with his own weapons; it
was his privilege to choose them and bring them. If he has erred,
on his head be it."

"Knight!" said the king. "Thou'rt overwrought with passion; it
disorders thy mind. Wouldst kill a naked man?"

"An he do it, he shall answer it to me," said Sir Launcelot.

"I will answer it to any he that desireth!" retorted Sir Sagramor hotly.

Merlin broke in, rubbing his hands and smiling his lowdownest
smile of malicious gratification:

"'Tis well said, right well said! And 'tis enough of parleying,
let my lord the king deliver the battle signal."

The king had to yield. The bugle made proclamation, and we turned
apart and rode to our stations. There we stood, a hundred yards
apart, facing each other, rigid and motionless, like horsed statues.
And so we remained, in a soundless hush, as much as a full minute,
everybody gazing, nobody stirring. It seemed as if the king could
not take heart to give the signal. But at last he lifted his hand,
the clear note of the bugle followed, Sir Sagramor's long blade
described a flashing curve in the air, and it was superb to see him
come. I sat still. On he came. I did not move. People got so
excited that they shouted to me:

"Fly, fly! Save thyself! This is murther!"

I never budged so much as an inch till that thundering apparition
had got within fifteen paces of me; then I snatched a dragoon
revolver out of my holster, there was a flash and a roar, and
the revolver was back in the holster before anybody could tell
what had happened.

Here was a riderless horse plunging by, and yonder lay Sir Sagramor,
stone dead.

The people that ran to him were stricken dumb to find that the life
was actually gone out of the man and no reason for it visible,
no hurt upon his body, nothing like a wound. There was a hole
through the breast of his chain-mail, but they attached no importance
to a little thing like that; and as a bullet wound there produces
but little blood, none came in sight because of the clothing and
swaddlings under the armor. The body was dragged over to let
the king and the swells look down upon it. They were stupefied
with aston