It was torn from his head, and Morella passed on bearing it transfixed upon his spear point.
"The Falcon falls," screamed the spectators; "he is unhorsed." But Peter was not unhorsed.

Freed from that awful pressure, he let drop the shattered shaft and, grasping at his saddle strap, dragged himself back into the selle.

Morella tried to stay his charger, that he might come about and fall upon the Englishman before he could recover himself; but the brute was heady, and would not be turned till he saw the wall of faces in front of him.

Now they were round, both of them, but Peter had no spear and no helm, while the lance of Morella was cumbered with his adversary's casque that he strove to shake free from it, but in vain.
"Draw your sword," shouted voices to Peter--the English voices of Smith and his sailors--and he put his hand down to do so, then bethought him of some other counsel, for he let it lie within its scabbard, and, spurring the white horse, came at Morella like a storm.
"The Falcon will be spiked," they screamed.

"The Eagle wins!--the Eagle wins!" And indeed it seemed that it must be so.