The men were mine.

They hampered one another on the stairs, and fought in fetters, being unable to advance or retreat, to lunge with freedom, or give back without fear.
I apprehended greater danger from Matthew than from my actual opponent, and presently, watching my opportunity, disarmed the latter by a strong parade, and sweeping Matthew's sword aside by the same movement, slashed him across the forehead; then, drawing back a step, gave my first opponent the point.

He fell in a heap on the floor, as good as dead, and Matthew, dropping his sword, staggered backwards and downwards into Fresnoy's arms.
'Bonne Foi! France et Bonne Foi!' It seemed to me that I bad not spoken, that I had plied steel in grimmest silence; and yet the cry still rang and echoed in the roof as I lowered my point, and stood looking grimly down at them.

Fresnoy's face was disfigured with rage and chagrin.

They were now but two to one, for Matthew, though his wound was slight, was disabled by the blood which ran down into his eyes and blinded him.
'France et Bonne Foi!' 'Bonne Foi and good sword!' cried a voice behind me.