Quick as light he drove at Peter's face with his point; but the Englishman leapt to one side, and the thrust went past him.

Again Morella came at him, and struck so mighty a blow that, although Peter caught it on his buckler, it sliced through the edge of it and fell upon his unprotected neck and shoulder, wounding him, for now red blood showed on the white armour, and Peter reeled back beneath the stroke.
"The Eagle wins!--the Eagle wins! Spain and the Eagle" shouted ten thousand throats.

In the momentary silence that followed, a single voice, a clear woman's voice, which even then Margaret knew for that of Inez, cried from among the crowd: "Nay, the Falcon stoops!" Before the sound of her words died away, maddened it would seem, by the pain of his wound, or the fear of defeat, Peter shouted out his war-cry of _"A Brome! A Brome"_! and, gathering himself together, sprang straight at Morella as springs a starving wolf.

The blue steel flickered in the sunlight, then down it fell, and lo! half the Spaniard's helm lay on the sand, while it was Morella's turn to reel backward--and more, as he did so, he let fall his shield.
"A stroke!--a good stroke!" roared the crowd.

"The Falcon!--the Falcon!" Peter saw that fallen shield, and whether for chivalry's sake, as thought the cheering multitude, or to free his left arm, he cast away his own, and grasping the sword with both hands rushed on the Spaniard.
From that moment, helmless though he was, the issue lay in doubt no longer.