Then silently a Roundhead charged Sir Crispin with a pike.

He leapt nimbly aside, and the murderous lunge shot past him; as he did so he dropped his left-hand sword and caught at the halberd.

Exerting his whole strength in a mighty pull, he brought the fellow that wielded it toppling forward, and received him on his outstretched blade.
Covered with blood--the blood of others--Crispin stood before them now.
He was breathing hard and sweating at every pore, but still grim and defiant.

His strength, he realized, was ebbing fast.

Yet he shook himself, and asked them with a gibing laugh did they not think that they had better shoot him.
The Roundheads paused again.