The White Gauntlet. Reid Mayne

wheeled his horse with the rapidity of thought, he rode back; and, spitting his beaver upon the point of his sword, he raised it up from the ground, and once more set it firmly upon his head!

      All this was accomplished, before his antagonist could turn to attack him; and the sang froid exhibited in the act, along with the graceful equitation, completely restored the confidence of his supporters.

      The fourth encounter was final – the last in which the combatants met face to face.

      They closed at full gallop; thrust at each other; and then passed on as before.

      But Holtspur had now discovered the point in which he was superior to his adversary; and determined to take advantage of it.

      The steeds had scarce cleared one another, when that of the cavalier was seen suddenly to stop – reined backward, until his tail lay spread upon the grass. Then turning upon his hind hoofs, as on a pivot, he sprang out in full gallop after the horse of the cuirassier.

      The black horseman, waving his sword in the air, gave out a shout of triumph – such as he had erst often uttered in the ears of Indian foemen – while the horse himself, as if conscious of the advantage thus gained, sent forth a shrill neigh, that resembled the scream of a jaguar.

      With a glance over his shoulder, Scarthe perceived the approaching danger. By attempting to turn, he would expose himself sideways to the thrust of his adversary’s sword.

      There was no chance to turn just then. He must make distance to obtain an opportunity. His only hope lay in the fleetness of his steed; and, trusting to this, he sank the spurs deeply, and galloped on.

      This new and unexpected manoeuvre had all the appearance of a retreat; and the camp rang with cries of: – “Coward!” “He is conquered!”

      “Huzza for the black horseman!”

      For a moment Marion Wade forgot her fears. For a moment proud pleasant thoughts swept through her breast. Her bosom rose and fell under the influence of triumphant emotions. Was he not a hero – a conqueror – worthy of that heart she had wholly given him?

      She watched every spring of the two steeds. She longed to see the pursuer overtake the pursued. She was not cruel; but she wished it to be over: for the suspense was terrible to endure.

      Marion was not to be tortured much longer. The climax was close at hand.

      On starting on that tail-on-end chase, the cuirassier Captain had full confidence in his steed. He was a true Arab, possessing all the strength and swiftness of his race.

      But one of the same race was after him, stronger and swifter than he. Like an arrow from its bow the steed of the cuirassier shot across the sward. Like another arrow, but one sent with stronger nerve, swept the sable charger in pursuit. Across the camp – out through the cleared causeway – over the open pasture of the park – galloped the two horsemen, as if riding a race. But their blazing armour, outstretched shining blades, angry looks and earnest attitudes – all told of a different intent.

      Scarthe had been for some time endeavouring to gain distance, in order to have an opportunity of turning face to his antagonist. With the latter clinging closely behind him, he knew the manoeuvre to be dangerous, if not impossible – without subjecting himself to the thrust of Holtspur’s sword. He soon began to perceive another danger – that of being overtaken.

      The spectators had discontinued their shouts; and once more a profound silence reigned throughout the camp. It was like the silence that precedes some expected catastrophe – some crisis inevitable.

      From the beginning his pursuer had kept constantly gaining upon him. The fore hoofs of the sable charger now appeared at every bound to overlap the hind heels of his own horse. Should the chase continue but a minute longer, he must certainly be overtaken; for the blade of the cavalier was gleaming scarce ten feet behind his back. The climax was near.

      “Surrender, or yield up your life!” demanded Holtspur in a determined voice.

      “Never!” was the equally determined reply. “Richard Scarthe never surrenders – least of all to – ”

      “Your blood on your own head, then!” cried the black horseman, at the same instant urging his horse to a final burst of speed.

      The latter gave a long leap forward, bringing him side by side with the steed of the cuirassier. At the same instant Holtspur’s sword was seen thrust horizontally outwards.

      A cry went up from the crowd, who expected next moment to see the cuirassier captain impaled upon that shining blade. The cuirass of the time consisted only of the breast-plate; and the back of the wearer was left unprotected.

      Undoubtedly in another instant Scarthe would have received his death wound, but for an accident that saved him. As Holtspur’s horse leaped forward the hind heels of the other struck against his off fore leg causing him slightly to swerve, and thus changing the direction of the sword-thrust. It saved the life of Scarthe, though not his limbs: for the blade of his antagonist entering his right arm, just under the shoulder, passed clear through – striking against the steel rear-brace in front, and sending his own sword shivering into the air.

      The cuirassier captain, dismounted by the shock, in another instant lay sprawling upon the grass; while his horse, with trailing bridle, continued his onward gallop, wildly neighing as he went.

      “Cry quarter, or die!” shouted the cavalier, flinging himself from his saddle, and with his left hand grasping the cuirassier by the gorget, while in his right he held the threatening blade. “Cry quarter, or die!”

      “Hold!” exclaimed Scarthe. “Hold!” he repeated, with the addition of a bitter oath. “This time the chance has been yours. I take quarter.”

      “Enough,” said Holtspur, as he restored his sword to its sheath. Then turning his back upon his vanquished antagonist, he walked silently away.

      The spectators descended from their elevated position; and, clustering around the conqueror, vociferated their cheers and congratulations. A girl in a crimson cloak ran up, and kneeling in front, presented him with a bunch of flowers. It was the insulted maiden, who thus gracefully acknowledged her gratitude.