“By the soul of Saint Edward,” he said, “I will rescue her from yonder overproud knight, and he shall die by my hand!”

“Think what you do!” cried Wamba; “hasty hand catches frog for fish⁠—by my bauble, yonder is none of my Lady Rowena⁠—see but her long dark locks!⁠—Nay, an ye will not know black from white, ye may be leader, but I will be no follower⁠—no bones of mine shall be broken unless I know for whom.⁠—And you without armour too!⁠—Bethink you, silk bonnet never kept out steel blade.⁠—Nay, then, if wilful will to water, wilful must drench.⁠— Deus vobiscum , most doughty Athelstane!”⁠—he concluded, loosening the hold which he had hitherto kept upon the Saxon’s tunic.

To snatch a mace from the pavement, on which it lay beside one whose dying grasp had just relinquished it⁠—to rush on the Templar’s band, and to strike in quick succession to the right and left, levelling a warrior at each blow, was, for Athelstane’s great strength, now animated with unusual fury, but the work of a single moment; he was soon within two yards of Bois-Guilbert, whom he defied in his loudest tone.

“Turn, false-hearted Templar! let go her whom thou art unworthy to touch⁠—turn, limb of a hand of murdering and hypocritical robbers!”

“Dog!” said the Templar, grinding his teeth, “I will teach thee to blaspheme the holy Order of the Temple of Zion;” and with these words, half-wheeling his steed, he made a demi-courbette towards the Saxon, and rising in the stirrups, so as to take full advantage of the descent of the horse, he discharged a fearful blow upon the head of Athelstane.