utter failing of strength; but if, on
observing this, his foes pressed closer, strength appeared to return,
and still, still he struggled on. He sought for death; he felt that he
dared his destiny, but death shunned him; he strove with his destiny in
vain. Not thus might he fall, the young, the generous, the gifted. On
foot, his armor hacked and stained with blood, not yet had the word
"yield" been shouted in his ear.

"Back, back! leave me this glorious prize!" shouted Lancaster, spurring
on his charger through the crowd, and leaping from him the instant he
neared the spot where Nigel stood. "Take heed of my gallant horse, I
need him not--I shall not need him now. Ha! bareheaded too; well, so
shall it be with me--hand to hand, foot to foot. Turn, noble Nigel, we
are well-nigh equals now, and none shall come between us." He hastily
unclasped his helmet, threw it from his brow, and stood in the attitude
of defence.

One moment Sir Nigel paused; his closing foes had fallen from him at the
words of their leader; he hesitated one brief instant as to whether
indeed he should struggle more, or deliver up his sword to the generous
earl, when the shout of triumph from the topmost turret, proclaiming the
raising of the banner, fell upon his ear, and nerved him to the onset.

"Noble and generous!" he exclaimed, as their swords crossed. "Might I
choose my fate, I would fall by thy knightly sword."

As stupefied with wonder at the skill, the extraordinary velocity and
power of the combatants, the men-at-arms stood round, without making one
movement to leave the spot; and fearful indeed was that deadly strife;
equal they seemed in stature, in the use of their weapons, in every
mystery of the sword; the eye ached with the rapid flashing of the
blades, the ear tired of the sharp, unwavering clash, but still they
quailed not, moved not from the spot where the combat had commenced.

How long this fearful struggle would have continued, or who would
finally be victor, was undecided still, when suddenly the wild mocking
laugh of madness sounded in the very ear of Nigel, and a voice shouted
aloud, "Fight on, my bonny lord; see, see, how I care for your winsome
bride," and the maniac form of Jean Roy rushed by through the thickest
ranks of the men, swift, swift as the lightning track. A veil of silver
tissue floated from her shoulder, and she seemed to be bearing something
in her arms, but what, the rapidity of her way precluded all disc