Fisticuffs of nowadays are brutal and debasing enough, but
a fight with a sharp-edged broadsword was not only brutal and debasing,
but cruel and bloody as well.
From the very first of the fight Myles Falworth was palpably and
obviously overmatched. After fifteen minutes had passed, Blunt stood
hale and sound as at first; but poor Myles had more than one red stain
of warm blood upon doublet and hose, and more than one bandage had been
wrapped by Gascoyne and Wilkes about sore wounds.
He had received no serious injury as yet, for not only was his body
protected by a buckler, or small oblong shield, which he carried upon
his left arm, and his head by a bascinet, or light helmet of steel, but
perhaps, after all, Blunt was not over-anxious to do him any dangerous
harm. Nevertheless, there could be but one opinion as to how the fight
tended, and Myles's friends were gloomy and downcast; the bachelors
proportionately exultant, shouting with laughter, and taunting Myles at
every unsuccessful stroke.
Once, as he drew back panting, leaning upon Gascoyne's shoulder, the
faithful friend whispered, with trembling lips: "Oh, dear Myles, carry
it no further. Thou hurtest him not, and he will slay thee ere he have
done with thee."
Thereupon Blunt, who caught the drift of the speech, put in a word.
"Thou art sore hurt, Myles Falworth," said he, "and I would do thee no
grievous harm.
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