It whirled round his adversary's head with frightful rapidity. Now it
carried away a feather of his plume; now it shore off a leaf of his
coronet. The flail of the thrasher does not fall more swiftly upon the
corn. For many minutes it was the Unknown's only task to defend himself
from the tremendous activity of the enemy.
But even the Rowski's strength would slacken after exertion. The blows
began to fall less thick anon, and the point of the unknown knight
began to make dreadful play. It found and penetrated every joint of
the Donnerblitz's armor. Now it nicked him in the shoulder where the
vambrace was buckled to the corselet; now it bored a shrewd hole under
the light brissart, and blood followed; now, with fatal dexterity, it
darted through the visor, and came back to the recover deeply
tinged with blood. A scream of rage followed the last thrust; and no
wonder:--it had penetrated the Rowski's left eye.
His blood was trickling through a dozen orifices; he was almost choking
in his helmet with loss of breath, and loss of blood, and rage.
Gasping with fury, he drew back his horse, flung his great sword at his
opponent's head, and once more plunged at him, wielding his curtal-axe.
Then you should have seen the unknown knight employing the same dreadful
weapon! Hitherto he had been on his defence; now he began the attack;
and the gleaming axe whirred in his hand like a reed, but descended like
a thunderbolt! "Yield! yield! Sir Rowski," shouted he, in a calm, clear
voice.
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