Next he sprang from his saddle, and accompanied by the horse Smoke, which followed him as a dog follows its master, walked slowly towards Lozelle, as he walked casting away his lance and drawing the great, cross-hilted sword.
Again the silence fell, and through it rang the cry of Godwin: "A D'Arcy! A D'Arcy!" "A D'Arcy! A D'Arcy!" came back Wulf's answer from the bridge, and his voice echoed thin and hollow in the spaces of the gulf.
Yet they rejoiced to hear it, for it told them that he was sound and strong.
Wulf had no shield and Lozelle had no helm--the fight was even.
They crouched opposite each other, the swords flashed aloft in the moonlight; from far away came the distant clank of steel, a soft, continual clamour of iron on iron.

A blow fell on Wulf's mail, who had nought wherewith to guard himself, and he staggered back.

Another blow, another, and another, and back, still back he reeled--back to the edge of the bridge, back till he struck against the horse that stood behind him, and, resting there a moment, as it seemed, regained his balance.
Then there was a change.

Look, he rushed forward, wielding the great blade in both hands.

The stroke lit upon Lozelle's shield and seemed to shear it in two, for in that stillness all could hear the clang of its upper half as it fell upon the stones.
Beneath the weight of it he staggered, sank to his knee, gained his feet again, and in his turn gave back.