this sword!" said Nigel, and he turned the hilt to the cripple.
"Now!" he added, as he drew his hunting knife. "Kill me if you can, Paul
de la Fosse, for as God is my help I will do as much for you!"

The woman, half swooning and yet spellbound and fascinated, looked on
at that strange combat. For a moment the cripple stood with an air of
doubt, the sword grasped in his nerveless fingers. Then as he saw the
tiny blade in Nigel's hand the greatness of the advantage came home to
him, and a cruel smile tightened his loose lips. Slowly, step by step he
advanced, his chin sunk upon his chest, his eyes glaring from under the
thick tangle of his brows like fires through the brushwood. Nigel waited
for him, his left hand forward, his knife down by his hip, his face
grave, still and watchful.

Nearer and nearer yet, with stealthy step, and then with a bound and a
cry of hatred and rage Paul de la Fosse had sped his blow. It was well
judged and well swung, but point would have been wiser than edge against
that supple body and those active feet. Quick as a flash, Nigel had
sprung inside the sweep of the blade, taking a flesh wound on his left
forearm, as he pressed it under the hilt. The next instant the cripple
was on the ground and Nigel's dagger was at his throat.

"You dog!" he whispered. "I have you at my mercy! Quick ere I strike,
and for the last time! Will you marry or no?"

The crash of the fall and the sharp point upon his throat had cowed the
man's spirit. He looked up with a white face and the sweat gleamed upon
his forehead. There was terror in his eyes.

"Nay, take your knife from me!" he cried. "I cannot die like a calf in
the shambles."

"Will you marry?"

"Yes, yes, I will wed her! After all she is a good wench and I might
do worse. Let me up! I tell you I will marry her! What more would you
have?"

Nigel stood above him with his foot upon his misshapen body. He had
picked up his sword, and the point rested upon the cripple's breast.

"Nay, you will bide where you are! If you are to live--and my conscience
cries loud against it--at least your wedding will be such as your sins
have deserved. Lie there, like the crushed worm that you are!" Then
he raised his voice. "Father Athanasius!" he cried. "What ho! Father
Athanasius!"

The old priest ran to the cry, and so did the Lady Mary. A strange sight
it was that met them now in the circle of light, the frightened girl,
half-unconscious against the table, th