hell?—The castle burns behind us, villains!—let despair give you courage, or let me forward, I will cope with this champion myself."
And well and chivalrously did De Bracy that day maintain the fame he had acquired in the civil wars of that dreadful period. The vaulted passage to which the postern gave entrance, and in which these two redoubted champions were now fighting hand to hand, rung with the furious blows which they dealt each other, De Bracy with his sword, the Black Knight with his ponderous axe. At length the Norman received a blow, which, though its force was partly parried by his shield, for otherwise never more would De Bracy have moved limb, descended yet with such violence on his crest, that he measured his length on the paved floor.
"Yield thee, De Bracy," said the Black Champion, stooping over him, and holding against the bars of his helmet the fatal poniard with which the knights dispatched their enemies, (and which was called the dagger of mercy),—"yield thee, Maurice De Bracy, rescue or no rescue, or thou art but a dead man."
