breath away. Then, to add fire to my discomfiture, he calmly placed his hands flat upon his hips and stood smiling at me.

“A Norman calf!” he cried. “If the rest of your race can fight no better than that, it is no wonder that the King of France will soon devour you!”

I made no answer. The taunt struck me with the sharpness of a knife. If I was full of wrath before, I was boiling with anger now. I steadied myself on the balls of my feet and looked the fellow in the eye. Then, with greater quickness than at first, I rushed again upon him. But he was ready, even more than I had expected. Instead of leaping to the side, he jumped back and, as I came towards him, struck me a sharp blow on the face with his open hand.

By this time I was fighting mad, but rather at my own bungling than at his adroitness. I would have given my right arm to have caught him a single stunning crash. I plunged forward, reckless and determined to the last degree. Now he slipped past me so close that I was able to touch the sleeve of his coat. Again his hot breath touched my face. He came in so near that he gave my arm a twist. But with all my effort I could not lay a finger on him. It was like a game—a contest with speed on one side and strength on the other——

“Henri!”

It was Le Brun’s voice coming like a warning. I knew I had to be on the alert. But before I realized what my opponent was about, he had caught me by sliding his arm entirely under mine. I felt a twang run across my shoulder as though it was being wrenched from the socket. My feet loosed themselves from the ground and in the next second I was rolling over towards the anvil of the armorer.

But I was not entirely gone. With a kind of instinct I extended my hand to grasp whatever might save me from utter humiliation. It was mere luck, I know, but even at that I had to grit my teeth and hang on with what strength was still in me. My fist was closing around the Fool’s wrist and the surer I was of myself, the harder I held on. A sudden jerk brought him slightly towards me. A hard steady pull bent him still further. With a twist I threw myself with my back upon the ground. I had two hands free now and I wrapped both around his wrist with the sureness of a vise. He struggled like an animal taken in a trap. With the fingers of his free hand he tried to pry my grip loose. He twisted and squirmed. He dug his nails into my flesh. He jumped from one position to another. He pretended to fall towards me and then with his arms relaxed sprang suddenly back again. But I clung to him as though it were my only hope for life until his tugs and pulls spent themselves and I grew the more confident of victory.

His breath was getting shorter and a paleness overspread his face. It was now or never for me, so with one firm effort I drew him steadily down until his face was near mine and his feet kept tapping at my ribs. Then, he fell. His whole body covered mine. His knees dug into my stomach and the crook of his elbow fastened itself in my throat.

For a moment I feared I would choke. I had to let go his wrist with one hand to clear myself of his weight. As soon as I had shoved him away, I reached out to grasp him by the throat if I could, but in the same moment I felt him clutching at mine.

We were struggling with every sinew, each for the mastery. With a quickness that I might have been expecting, my opponent gave one final lurch. It was an effort that wrenched free the hand which I held in my grip. I tried again and again to clutch it, but I succeeded only in closing my fist in the air. I caught his body between my knees in the hope that I could squeeze the breath out of him. I squirmed this way and that. Now I had his arm or his wrist between my fingers, but before I was sure of myself he had twisted out of danger. We rolled over locked together like tangled pieces of twine, but with every rolling it was he, because of his adroitness, who came uppermost and it was I who was prone upon my back upon the ground.

At last the end came. By a piece of mere chance I had slid my arm forward with its entire length under his. Then with a twist of my wrist I laid my hand around his throat. His shoulder was like the resting place of a lever. I began to press steadily. His chin went back and his eyes turned upwards. A little more and his mouth opened showing a row of even white teeth. I was on the verge of tossing him from me when he squirmed once more, this time to the one side. He slid from out the vise that was closing in on him and almost with the same effort sprang quickly to his feet.

I jumped up of course, for I thought the conflict but begun when he raised his hand as though to tell me that he had enough and between the heavings of his breath called in a shaking voice, “I did not come here to fight!”

I almost laughed in his face.

“Why, then, did you come?” demanded Le Brun with a growl.

“I came to make friends!” was the answer.

“——to make friends?” I echoed. “Do you think a man makes friends through jibes and insults?”

By this time both of us had somewhat recovered our breath. In the most serious manner imaginable he threw his hands apart and looked from the armorer to me.

“It’s an unfortunate habit I have,” he exclaimed. “It lies in my disposition to dig to the bottom of things—to prod people till they squirm.”

“Some day,” said I by way of admonishment, “you’ll prod the wrong person. In such dangerous times as these, when everyone is the other’s enemy, it’ll likely cost you your life.”

He paid no more heed to me than if I had not spoken. As though he was aroused by a sudden curiosity, he half closed his eyes and made a mental measurement of me as I have often seen a buyer measure a horse. He took a step or two to the rear. He circled around me. I saw his lips move as though he was noting this or that to himself. Then, with the same ease and confidence as though we had been life-long friends, he came up to me and laid his fingers on the upper part of my arm.

“All brawn,” he said. “Tough. Great endurance, but a trifle slow in action.” And with a smile of satisfaction he clapped me heartily on the shoulder. “Can you fight?” he demanded.

I wrinkled my brows.

“I held my own with you, didn’t I?” I asked.

“Na. Na. Lad. Not that,” he said. “That was no fight. It was only a little rolling in the dirt. What I mean is this: Are you good with a sword, an ax or a dagger?”

“Well,” I answered slyly, “a bit ago you made an accusation. You upbraided me for being a Norman.”

His head came up with a jerk and the fire flashed from his black eyes.

“That was only a bit of my prodding,” he replied quickly. “I wanted to stir you up. Oh,” he cried when I looked questioningly at him, “you’ll all need stirring up. What skill you have in the handling of weapons will soon be sorely useful. Can’t you realize that the King of France is watching you like a cat watches a mouse?”

“I know,” I answered rather downcast, “he would like to add our territories to his own.”

By this time the armorer had returned to his forge. His great hairy arm lay along the shaft of the bellows. The sparks from the coals of peat flew like tiny shooting-stars towards the rafters. He was like a great ox, patient and plodding, that did not realize its strength.

“You are too much like him,” came the answer as the Fool pointed to Le Brun, “—powerful, but not far-sighted. What you ought to have is a bit of cunning to match your wits against your foes.”

I