to the esquire: Lanyon on the north battlements, and yon other in the barbican. Who will charge himself with these small matters? Let two go on either errand, though one might suffice; for a mace-blow from behind will settle all quickly.”

Before any could reply, Ralph had risen to his feet. Not even in that moment of supreme peril had he ever a thought of leaving to his fate, unwarned, the one honest man in that nest of traitors: he only now repented himself, of not having trusted him more entirely. He moved swiftly to the window looking towards the barbican, and his stern voice clave the still night air startlingly

"Swinburne! Miles Swinburne! There is treachery, and I cannot aid thee. Cast thyself into the moat, and flce: 'tis thy last chance for life."

There was uproar amongst the bandits below, as if an enemy had broken in unawares; and all, catching up their weapons, streamed pellmell into the courtyard. And the trembling girls above clustered closer round the crucifix-foot, with smothered screams and moans; and Marguerite de Hacquemont's pale face waxed whiter yet; whilst her father, after a few muttered words of encouragement, and a whisper to an ancient servitor, went down to his post just within the door. And Ralph Brakespeare, as he pushed the raised flagstone back to its place. in the flooring with his heel, locked his vizor deliberately, and mounted the platform of the stair; carrying with him the lighted mortier, which he fixed in a nook in the wall. Then, after crossing himself thrice devoutly, he waited patiently for what should ensuc; with his great épée d'armes drawn, and his mace laid ready to his hand: he would cumber himself with no shield.

For some minutes the turmoil went on below. What had happened in the barbican Ralph could not divine; but, from certain cries of wrath and disappointment, he guessed that Lanyon's escape had been discovered. Soon they all came trooping back again, and feet clattered through the presence-chamber; and the next instant, the narrow stair was thronged with armed men, some of the rearmost bearing torches.

Right in front of the rush was Berchtold of Boppart-his coarse features a-blaze with drink, and distorted with passion-swaying a massive iron lever, such as was used for bending trebuchets; whilst a savage grin on his thick lips made the whole expression of his face rather bestial than human. He came on recklessly, with lowered head; intending to drop his crowbar, and grapple. But, the instant he was within fair distance, Ralph's heavy blade came down on the left side of the giant's

gorget; griding sheer through plate, and mail, and bone, till it bit deep into the right shoulder; so that the huge corpse fell back almost headless amongst the startled crowd. Startled-for, though every man there had taken and given good store of hard blows, none had ever looked on so stark a sword-stroke.

During the slight confusion that ensued, and whilst those in front were freeing themselves of their ghastly cumbrance, Brakespeare's voice was heard. He had no hope of its being listened to: but he knew that every minute was worth a diamond; and was too cool to throw the slightest chance away.

"Hearken"-he said "all ye, whom I thought true and loyal men this morning. Ye may yet 'scape the gallows, an' ye will be guided by me. I know the arch-traitors among ye: one hath paid forfeit already. If ye now retire, and presently deliver bound into mine hands, Gian Malatesta and Martin Stackpole, I will engage, on Sir John Hawkwood's behalf, that the rest of ye shall be free to go and seek other service where ye will. Otherwise

Over the roar of derision that resounded through the vaulted staircase, could be distinguished the Italian's silvery tones. Yet not he, but another, thrust his way to the front, sword in hand. Then Ralph Brakespeare laughed, in his turn, loud and scornfully—

"Ha! honest Martin. Art thou, too, so greedy of thy Judas wages?" And the combat began.

The issue seemed at first very doubtful: Stackpole was strong and subtle of frame, and noted for skill with his weapon; he was clad, too, in harness of proof, and held his own gallantly, despite the disadvantage of ground. But Ralph had reason good for protracting the struggle; and it might have lasted longer, had he not feared straining his muscles by over-long sword-play. At length his arm appeared to sink wearily; deluded by the feint, the other lounged with all his might at the weakest point in his adversary's harness-the upper rim of the throat-piece; a swift motion of Brakespeare's head caused the thrust to glance aside; the next instant a hoarse yell woke up the echoes, and Stackpole fell back, pierced through eye and brain through the bars of his vizor.

For very shame, Gian Malatesta could no longer forbear coming to the front. It was not exactly cowardice that had hitherto kept him in the background; but he ever liked to see others doing his work; moreover, the superstition before alluded to, made him disinclined to pit himself single-handed against the esquire. Now no choice was

left him; so, spurning aside the corpse of his comrade, still quivering in the death pang, he planted himself fairly before his enemy.

"Corpo di Venere!"-the Italian said, in a slow, suppressed tone. "So we two must play out the play, that yonder bungler began. Thou art at thy old knight-errant's trade; only, flying at higher game than when thou didst buckler the tymbestere. 'Tis my turn now. I play not my life against thine: if, after essaying thee, I prevail not, we will ply arbalest, till thou fallest down there maimed--not slain outright. Die thou shalt not, till-bound hand and foot-thou hast seen how Gian Malatesta can love, and felt how he can hate."

Lest it should seem unnatural, that in such a crisis there should be dallying with words, it should be remembered that-if the chronicles of the time speak sooth-men, even in the hottest engagements, found leisure to make orations worthy of being recorded. And, furthermore, up to a much later period, the Italians were specially prone to prelude their duels with similar taunts; either intending to envenom their own wrath, or to goad their adversaries into rashness. If, for the very first time since the peril began, Brakespeare's voice shook a little, it surely was not with fear.

Sêr Malatesta"-he said-" for one thing do I render thanks to God: whether I die or live, this night earth must needs be rid of thee. What ailed thy curtal-axe, that it struck not home on Calais causeway? Now, with murder, and ravishment, and cogging of dice, thou hast wellnigh done; for the Devil himself, whom thou servest, will not pluck thee out of Hawkwood's hands. As I hope for Heaven's mercy, so do I believe, within short space, that glib tongue of thine will be raven's food."

Such an involuntary shiver ran through Malatesta's veins, as men are said to feel when others walk over their graves; but he braced himself with an effort; and, muttering a curse on his own folly, attacked Ralph fiercely.

Once again the combat was obstinately protracted; for, if Stackpole were a skilful swordsman, Malatesta was a perfect master of his weapon, and came fresh to its use; whilst Ralph-though in stature and strength he had decided advantage-was beginning to feel tho long strain on his sword-arm. Conscious of this, the esquire determined to risk somewhat to rid himself speedily of his most dangerous foe; so, watching his opportunity, he brought his great épée d'armes down, with a swing that must have carried all before it. But the lithe Italian dived down; avoiding the blow so that it swept harm