a trumpet’s blast: “I have vowed that no man shall claim the princess before me! Touch not her hand, Sir Norseman, until thou hast won the right to hold it in a fair combat.”
At the sight of Alfwine the princess grew pale, and her fingers closed a little tighter in the stranger’s grasp.
Without releasing her hand in the least, the Norseman turned and coolly looked at the new-comer. “And who art thou that doth so loudly proclaim against the choice of the princess?”
“I am Alfwine, the Man-Slayer.”
“And thou wilt slay me if I claim the princess?” the Norseman calmly questioned, throwing aside his cloak and standing, sword in hand, before the champion.
They were splendidly matched. Alfwine was a trifle heavier in build, but the Norseman’s muscles and sinews were perfect. His blond head of curls was on line with Alfwine’s black shock of hair. Shoulder to shoulder they stood. A backward glance the Norseman gave Gyda, as if to fire his heart and temper his sword, and the combat began. If the crowd had been silent before, then they were breathless. Several knights had leaped upon the stage to judge the contest fairly. The swords flashed up and down, now at the Norseman’s heart, to be swiftly turned aside and his own blade perilously near Alfwine’s throat. A combat long drawn out it proved, for
