So eager were the combatants to engage that in a few moments all
order had been lost and the two bands were mixed up in one furious
scrambling, clattering throng, each man tossed hither and thither,
thrown against one adversary and then against another, beaten and
hustled and buffeted, with only the one thought in his mind to
thrust with his spear or to beat with his ax against anyone who
came within the narrow slit of vision left by his visor.
But alas for Nigel and his hopes of some great deed! His was at
least the fate of the brave, for he was the first to fall. With a
high heart he had placed himself in the line as nearly opposite to
Beaumanoir as he could, and had made straight for the Breton
leader, remembering that in the out set the quarrel had been so
ordered that it lay between them. But ere he could reach his goal
he was caught in the swirl of his own comrades, and being the
lighter man was swept aside and dashed into the arms of Alain de
Karanais, the left-handed swordsman, with such a crash that the
two rolled upon the ground together. Light footed as a cat, Nigel
had sprung up first, and was stooping over the Breton Squire when
the powerful dwarf Raguenel brought his mace thudding down upon
the exposed back of his helmet. With a groan Nigel fell upon his
face, blood gushing from his mouth, nose, and ears. There he lay,
trampled over by either party, while that great fight for which
his fiery soul had panted was swaying back and forward above his
unconscious form.
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