THE FATE OF MYLES
 THERE WAS a little while of restless, rustling silence, during which the Constable took his place in the seat appointed
for him directly in front of and below the King's throne. A moment or two when even the restlessness and the
rustling were quieted, and then the King leaned forward and spoke to the Constable, who immediately called
out, in a loud, clear voice.
"Let them go!" Then again, "Let them go!" Then, for the third and last time, "Let them go and do their
endeavor, in God's name!"
At this third command the combatants, each of whom had till that moment been sitting as motionless as a statue
of iron, tightened rein, and rode slowly and deliberately forward without haste, yet without hesitation, until
they met in the very middle of the lists.
 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.
"Fear not, Gilbert," said he at each pause in the fight. "He holdeth his own right well." Then, after a while:
"God is with us, Gilbert. Alban is twice wounded and his horse faileth. One little while longer and the
victory is ours!"
A longer and more continuous interval of combat followed this last assurance, during which Myles drove the
assault fiercely and unrelentingly as though to overbear his enemy by the very power and violence of the blows
he delivered. The Earl defended himself desperately, but was borne back, back, back, farther and farther.
Every nerve of those who looked on was stretched to breathless tensity, when, almost as his enemy was against
the barriers, Myles paused and rested.
"Out upon it!" exclaimed the Earl of Mackworth, almost shrilly in his excitement, as the sudden lull followed
the crashing of blows. "Why doth the boy spare him? That is thrice he hath given him grace to recover; an he
had pushed the battle that time he had driven him back against the barriers."
It was as the Earl had said; Myles had three times given his enemy grace when victory was
al-  most in his very grasp. He had three times spared him, in spite of all he and those dear to him must suffer
should his cruel and merciless enemy gain the victory. It was a false and foolish generosity, partly the fault
of his impulsive youth—more largely of his romantic training in the artificial code of French chivalry.
He felt that the battle was his, and so he gave his enemy these three chances to recover, as some chevalier or
knight-errant of romance might have done, instead of pushing the combat to a mercifully speedy end—and
his foolish generosity cost him dear.
In the momentary pause that had thus stirred the Earl of Mackworth to a sudden outbreak, the Earl of Alban sat
upon his panting, sweating war-horse, facing his powerful young enemy at about twelve paces distant. He sat as
still as a rock, holding his gisarm poised in front of him. He had, as the Earl of Mackworth had said, been
wounded twice, and each time with the point of the sword, so much more dangerous than a direct cut with the
weapon. One wound was beneath his armor, and no one but he knew how serious it might be; the other was under
the overlapping of the epauhere, and from it a finger's-breadth of blood ran straight down his side and over
the housings of his horse. From without, the still motionless iron
fig-  ure appeared calm and expressionless; within, who knows what consuming blasts of hate, rage, and despair swept
his heart as with a fiery whirlwind.
As Myles looked at the motionless, bleeding figure, his breast swelled with pity. "My Lord," said he, "thou
art sore wounded and the fight is against thee; wilt thou not yield thee?"
No one but that other heard the speech, and no one but Myles heard the answer that came back, hollow,
cavernous, "Never, thou dog! Never!"
Then in an instant, as quick as a flash, his enemy spurred straight upon Myles, and as he spurred he struck a
last desperate, swinging blow, in which he threw in one final effort all the strength of hate, of fury, and of
despair. Myles whirled his horse backward, warding the blow with his shield as he did so. The blade glanced
from the smooth face of the shield, and, whether by mistake or not, fell straight and true, and with almost
undiminished force, upon the neck of Myles's war-horse, and just behind the ears. The animal staggered
forward, and then fell upon its knees, and at the same instant the other, as though by the impetus of the
rush, dashed full upon it with all the momentum lent by the weight of iron it carried. The shock was
irresistible, and the stunned and wounded horse was flung upon the ground, rolling over and
 over. As his horse fell, Myles wrenched one of his feet out of the stirrup; the other caught for an instant,
and he was flung headlong with stunning violence, his armor crashing as he fell. In the cloud of dust that
arose no one could see just what happened, but that what was done was done deliberately no one doubted. The
earl, at once checking and spurring his foaming charger, drove the iron-shod war-horse directly over Myles's
prostrate body. Then, checking him fiercely with the curb, reined him back, the hoofs clashing and crashing,
over the figure beneath. So he had ridden over the father at York, and so he rode over the son at Smithfield.
Myles, as he lay prostrate and half stunned by his fall, had seen his enemy thus driving his rearing horse
down upon him, but was not able to defend himself. A fallen knight in full armor was utterly powerless to rise
without assistance; Myles lay helpless in the clutch of the very iron that was his defence. He closed his eyes
involuntarily, and then horse and rider were upon him. There was a deafening, sparkling crash, a glimmering
faintness, then another crash as the horse was reined furiously back again, and then a humming stillness.
In a moment, upon the scaffolding all was a tumult of uproar and confusion, shouting and
 gesticulation; only the King sat calm, sullen, impassive. The Earl wheeled his horse and sat for a moment or
two as though to make quite sure that he knew the King's mind. The blow that had been given was foul,
unknightly, but the King gave no sign either of acquiescence or rebuke; he had willed that Myles was to die.
Then the Earl turned again, and rode deliberately up to his prostrate enemy.
When Myles opened his eyes after that moment of stunning silence, it was to see the other looming above him on
his war-horse, swinging his gisarm for one last mortal blow—pitiless, merciless.
The sight of that looming peril brought back Myles's wandering senses like a flash of lightning. He flung up
his shield, and met the blow even as it descended, turning it aside. It only protracted the end.
Once more the Earl of Alban raised the gisarm, swinging it twice around his head before he struck. This time,
though the shield glanced it, the blow fell upon the shoulder-piece, biting through the steel plate and
leathern jack beneath even to the bone. Then Myles covered his head with his shield as a last protecting
chance for life.
For the third time the Earl swung the blade flashing, and then it fell, straight and true, upon
 the defenceless body, just below the left arm, biting deep through the armor plates. For an instant the blade
stuck fast, and that instant was Myles's salvation. Under the agony of the blow he gave a muffled cry, and
almost instinctively grasped the shaft of the weapon with both hands. Had the Earl let go his end of the
weapon, he would have won the battle at his leisure and most easily; as it was, he struggled violently to
wrench the gisarm away from Myles. In that short, fierce struggle Myles was dragged to his knees, and then,
still holding the weapon with one hand, he clutched the trappings of the Earl's horse with the other. The next
moment he was upon his feet. The other struggled to thrust him away, but Myles, letting go the gisarm, which
he held with his left hand, clutched him tightly by the sword-belt in the intense, vise-like grip of despair.
In vain the Earl strove to beat him loose with the shaft of the gisarm, in vain he spurred and reared his
horse to shake him off; Myles held him tight, in spite of all his struggles.
He felt neither the streaming blood nor the throbbing agony of his wounds; every faculty of soul, mind, body,
every power of life, was centered in one intense, burning effort. He neither felt, thought, nor reasoned, but
clutching, with the
 blindness of instinct, the heavy, spiked, iron-headed mace that hung at the Earl's saddle-bow, he gave it one
tremendous wrench that snapped the plaited leathern thongs that held it as though they were skeins of thread.
Then, grinding his teeth as with a spasm, he struck as he had never struck before—once, twice, thrice
full upon the front of the helmet. Crash! crash! And then, even as the Earl toppled sidelong, crash! And the
iron plates split and crackled under the third blow. Myles had one flashing glimpse of an awful face, and then
the saddle was empty.
Then, as he held tight to the horse, panting, dizzy, sick to death, he felt the hot blood gushing from his
side, filling his body armor, and staining the ground upon which he stood. Still he held tightly to the
saddle-bow of the fallen man's horse until, through his glimmering sight, he saw the Marshal, the Lieutenant,
and the attendants gather around him. He heard the Marshal ask him, in a voice that sounded faint and distant,
if he was dangerously wounded. He did not answer, and one of the attendants, leaping from his horse, opened
the umbril of his helmet, disclosing the dull, hollow eyes, the ashy, colorless lips, and the waxy forehead,
upon which stood great beads of sweat.
HE HELD TIGHTLY TOTHE FALLEN MAN'S HORSE.
"Water! water!" he cried, hoarsely; "give me to
 drink!" Then, quitting his hold upon the horse, he started blindly across the lists towards the gate of the
barrier. A shadow that chilled his heart seemed to fall upon him. "It is death," he muttered; then he stopped,
then swayed for an instant, and then toppled headlong, crashing as he fell.