well-matched in strength, they were equally well-matched in skill. Alfwine’s sword had seemed to enter the vital left side of the stranger, and a sharp little cry had been wrung from Gyda. This gave the Norseman new strength and before the sword had pierced his tunic, he dashed it aside and drove his own into Alfwine, just above his heart. Dexterously stopping the weapon, he turned and looked at the princess. “One inch further, fair princess, and he dies. His life is thine, if so thou wilt command me.”
“Spare him! Spare him!” Gyda pleaded.
The Norseman drew out the sword, and Alfwine fell, wounded, but not unto death. Flinging the sword aside, the Norseman called to his bard. “Wipe the blood from it, Thorgills. It were an ugly sight for my lady, and I would not look upon it myself this happy day.”
The physicians had carried off Alfwine; and the Celts, even in their disappointment, were generously applauding the Northern hero.
“It was a noble fight, my father!” said Eogan, to whom the spectacle had given a flash of the warrior’s enthusiasm.
“I never saw fairer nor better,” old Fergus replied.
King Kavaran called the stranger to him. Taking Gyda by the hand, the monarch said impressively: “She is thine by every right of fair combat; but she is a king’s daughter, of Malachy’s royal blood, and stranger as thou art, thou must know that blood is
