The edge of the sword clove the upper circumference of an iron link,
leaving the severed ends gleaming like burnished silver, but the chain
still held. Again and again the sword fell, but never twice in the same
spot, anger adding strength to the blows, but subtracting skill.

"My Lord! my Lord!" beseeched Richart, "restrain your fury. You cannot
escape from this strong castle even though you sever the chain."

"I'll trust my sword for that," muttered the prisoner between his set
teeth.

There now rang out on the conflict a new voice; the voice of a woman,
clear and commanding, the tones instinct with that inborn quality of
imperious authority which expects and usually obtains instant
obedience.

"Close the door, Richart," cried the unseen lady. The servitor made a
motion to obey, but the swoop of the sword seemed to paralyse him where
he stood. He cast a beseeching look at his mistress, which said as
plainly as words: "You are ordering me to my death." The Count, his
weapon high in mid-air, suddenly swerved it from its course, for there
appeared across the opening a woman's hand and arm, white and shapely,
fleecy lace falling away in dainty folds from the rounded contour of
the arm. The small, firm hand grasped bravely the almost severed chain
and the next instant the door was drawn shut, the bolts clanking into
their places. Count Herbert, paused, leaning on his sword, gazing
bewildered at the closed door.

"Ye gods of war!" he cried; "never have I seen before such cool courage
as that!"