When I opened them again it was to see Sir Henry's shield lying on the ground, and Sir Henry himself with his great arms twined round Twala's middle.

To and fro they swung, hugging each other like bears, straining with all their mighty muscles for dear life, and dearer honour.

With a supreme effort Twala swung the Englishman clean off his feet, and down they came together, rolling over and over on the lime paving, Twala striking out at Curtis' head with the battle-axe, and Sir Henry trying to drive the _tolla_ he had drawn from his belt through Twala's armour.
It was a mighty struggle, and an awful thing to see.
"Get his axe!" yelled Good; and perhaps our champion heard him.
At any rate, dropping the _tolla_, he snatched at the axe, which was fastened to Twala's wrist by a strip of buffalo hide, and still rolling over and over, they fought for it like wild cats, drawing their breath in heavy gasps.

Suddenly the hide string burst, and then, with a great effort, Sir Henry freed himself, the weapon remaining in his hand.
Another second and he was upon his feet, the red blood streaming from the wound in his face, and so was Twala.

Drawing the heavy _tolla_ from his belt, he reeled straight at Curtis and struck him in the breast.
The stab came home true and strong, but whoever it was who made that chain armour, he understood his art, for it withstood the steel.