Before many minutes, he forgot that he had been on the point of
quarrelling with Sigurd Haraldsson. Anything more deft or graceful than
the swiftness and ease with which the young noble handled his weapon he
had never imagined. Admiration crowded out every other feeling.

"I hope that he will win!" he muttered presently. "By St. George, I hope
that he will win!" and his soothing pats on the horse's neck became
frantic slaps in his excitement.

The archer was not a bad fighter, and just now he was a desperate
fighter. Round and round went the two. A dozen times they shifted their
ground; a dozen times they changed their modes of attack and defence. At
last, Sigurd's weapon itself began to change from one hand to the other.
Without abating a particle of his swiftness, in the hottest of the fray
he made a feint with his left. Before the other could recover from
parrying it, the weapon leaped back to his right, darted like a hissing
snake at the opening, and pierced the archer's shoulder.

He fell, snarling, and lay with Sigurd's point pricking his throat and
Sigurd's foot pressing his breast.

"I think you understand now that you will not stand over my scalp,"
young Haraldsson said sternly. "Now you have got what you deserved. You
managed to get me banished, and you shot three arrows at me to kill me;
and all because of what? Because in last fall's games I shot better than
you! It was in my mind that if ever I caught you I would drive a knife
through you."

He kicked him contemptuously as he took his foot away.