"
We at once sought Hymbercourt, who, on being closely questioned,
admitted that the Italians in the castle were boasting that the stranger
who seemed so eager to fight when Calli's arm was lame, had lost his
courage now that the arm was healed.
Of course I was in a deal of trouble over this combat, and heartily
wished the challenge had never been given, though I had all faith in
Max's strength and skill. I, who had fought constantly for twenty years,
had trained him since his tenth birthday. I had not only trained him; I
had introduced him to the lists at eighteen--he being well grown, strong
of limb, and active as a wildcat. I waged him against a famous tilt-yard
knight, and Max held his own manfully, to his great credit and to my
great joy. The battle was a draw. My first great joy in life came a few
months afterward, when Max unhorsed this same knight, and received the
crown of victory from the queen of the lists.
But this combat would be a battle of death. Two men would enter the
lists; one would die in the course.
Max could, with propriety, announce his title and refuse to fight one so
far beneath him as Calli; but even my love for the boy and my fear of
the outcome, could not induce me to advise this. The advice would have
been little heeded had I given it. Max was not one in whose heart hatred
could thrive, but every man should have a just sense of injury received,
and no one should leave all vengeance to God. In Max's heart this sense
was almost judicial.
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