While Calli was struggling to release his axe, Yolanda cleared
the low barrier of the true lists, sped across the intervening space
like a flash of red avenging flame, and reached Max not one second too
soon, for Calli's axe was again uplifted. She fell upon Max, and had the
axe descended she would have received the blow. Calli stepped back in
surprise, his heel caught on the toe of Max's iron boot, he fell prone
upon his back, and the weight of his armor prevented him from rising
quickly. The glancing blow on Max's helmet had roused him, and when he
moved Yolanda rose to her knees beside him.
"Let me help you," she cried, lifting Max's mailed hand to her shoulder;
Max did so, and by help of the frail girl he drew himself to his knees
and then to his feet. Meantime, Calli was attempting to rise. I can
still see the terrible picture. Calli's panting horse stood near by with
drooping head. Max's charger lay quivering in the convulsions of death.
Calli, whose helmet had dropped from his head when he fell, lay resting
on his elbow, half risen and bareheaded. Max stood deliberately taking
his battle-axe from his girdle chain, while Yolanda still knelt at his
feet. Battle-axe in hand, Max stepped toward Calli, who had risen to his
knees. The expression on the Italian's face I shall never forget. With
bared head and upturned face he awaited the death that he knew he
deserved. Max lifted his battle-axe to give the blow. I wondered if he
would give it.
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