"He will make a
sorry example of De la Zouch even yet."

"But," persisted the old knight, "I declare----"

His speech was rudely cut short, for with a yell of pain he darted off
across the arena, closely followed by a huge mastiff, whose tail he
had been unfortunate enough to tread upon.

With the doctor out of the way the conflict was speedily renewed. It
was a terrible combat. De la Zouch, intent on ridding himself of
his adversary, declared he would give no quarter, and, altering his
tactics, he hewed and lunged away with all the temerity of a man who
fights for death or victory.

Manners' superiority with the sword, however, was so apparent that
after the restarting of the contest the final issue of it was never
for a moment doubted, not even by the veriest tyro present. Sir
Henry's wild thrusts were parried with consummate ease, and while the
knight's sword moved hither and thither with lightning-like rapidity,
the trusty blade of the other moved equally quick, but with far more
certainty.

He waited until De la Zouch began to tire before he exerted himself.
The time came at last, and then with a few quick strokes he laid his
foeman before him on the ground.

"Strike!" shouted a score of voices. "Strike!"

The victor uplifted his sword, and poised it high above his head to
bring it down with all his might. The people waited with throbbing
hearts to witness the stroke which should finish the combat, but
instead of striking Manners paused and turned round.

"Strike, man, strike!" yelled a chorus of onlookers.

Humbly bowing before Dorothy, he magnanimously declared that the fate
of his rival rested with her.

"'Tis a tournament, not a murder," decided Doll promptly; "you have
proved your cause, and if your foe will yield we are ready to spare
him."

Amid the plaudits of the crowd, Manners bowed low upon his knee,
kissed the hand held graciously out towards him. He murmured his
perfect acquiescence to her will, and was about to pass out of the
ring, an easy victor, when a horseman rode in, and without in anyway
announcing himself, he sprang off his horse and scanned the company.

"What does this fellow want?" growled Sir George, as with knitted
eyebrows he scrutinised the intruder. "Thou art a Royal messenger," he
added, turning to the man, who had advanced until he stood before the
baron.

There was little sympathy between the Court at London and the King of
the Peak, and the baron surmised little