Very faint and far off a solitary cry broke the vast dearth of the
night. It rose like an owl's hooting, held, shuddered, and then died
down. Prosper's clasp on the girl's hand suddenly straightened; it
held convulsively while the call held, relaxed when it relaxed. Then
the former hush swam again over the wood, and so endured until, after
intolerable suspense, they heard the heavy tread of Galors de Born.
His bulk, his white impassive mask, were before them.
"I have settled my account, Prosper," he said. "Now settle yours."
Prosper shivered.
"I am quite ready," said he.
They changed, then crossed swords, and began their second rally on
foot. You would have said that they were sluggish at the work, as if
their blood had cooled with the long wait or sense of still more
dreadful business in the background, and needed a sting to one or
other to set it boiling again. They fenced almost idly at first; it
was cut and parry--formalism. Galors was very steady; Prosper,
breathing tightly through his nose, very wary. Gradually, however,
they warmed to it. Galors got a cut in the upper arm, and began making
ugly rushes, blundering, uncalculated bustles, which could only end
one way. Prosper had little difficulty in evading most of these;
Galors lost his breath and with it his temper. The sight of his own
shield and sword, ever at point against him, made him mad. He could
never reach his adroit enemy, it seemed. For a supreme effort he
feigned, drew back, then made a rush. Prosper parried, recovered, and
let in with a staggering head-cut which for the time dizzied his
opponent. Galors lowered his head under his shield, made another
desperate blind rush, and got to close quarters. The two men struggled
together, fighting as much with shields as swords, and more with legs
and arms than anything else. They were indistinguishable, a twisting
and flashing tangle; they locked, writhed, swayed, tottered--then rent
asunder. Galors fell heavily. He got on his feet again, however, for
another rush. As he came on Prosper stepped aside, knocked out his
guard and slashed at the shoulder--a dreadful thirsty blow. Galors
staggered, his shield dropped; but he came on once more. Another side-
cut beat his weapon down, and then a back-handed blow crashed into his
gorget. He threw up his arms and staggered backwards; a last cut
finished him. Galors with a cough that ended in a wet groan fell like
lead. He never spoke nor moved again.
Prosper sank on his knees, beaten out. Isoult started from the wood to
hold him, but he waved her back. All was not done. He put his sword in
his mouth and crept on all fours to his enemy, lifted his visor,
looked in his face. Then he got up and stood over him. He swung back
the bare sword of Salomon de Born with both hands. It came down, did
its last work and broke.