In the battle which followed, Myles fought with the long sword, the Earl
with the hand-gisarm for which he had asked. The moment they met, the
combat was opened, and for a time nothing was heard but the thunderous
clashing and clamor of blows, now and then beating intermittently, now
and then pausing. Occasionally, as the combatants spurred together,
checked, wheeled, and recovered, they would be hidden for a moment in
a misty veil of dust, which, again drifting down the wind, perhaps
revealed them drawn a little apart, resting their panting horses. Then,
again, they would spur together, striking as they passed, wheeling and
striking again.
Upon the scaffolding all was still, only now and then for the buzz of
muffled exclamations or applause of those who looked on. Mostly the
applause was from Myles's friends, for from the very first he showed and
steadily maintained his advantage over the older man. "Hah! well struck!
well recovered!" "Look ye! the sword bit that time!" "Nay, look, saw ye
him pass the point of the gisarm?" Then, "Falworth! Falworth!" as some
more than usually skilful stroke or parry occurred.
Meantime Myles's father sat straining his sightless eyeballs, as though
to pierce his body's darkness with one ray of light that would show him
how his boy held his own in the fight, and Lord Mackworth, leaning with
his lips close to the blind man's ear, told him point by point how the
battle stood.
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