But instead the only thing he did was to
get behind him and kick him with his foot until he also rose. Thereat
some laughed, but others, who had bets upon their champion, groaned.
Now the Swiss, having lost his shield in his fall, rushed at Dick,
grasping his axe with both hands. As before, the Englishman avoided the
blow, but for the first time he struck back, catching the giant on the
shoulder though not very heavily. Then with a shout of "St. George and
England!" he went in at him.
Hither and thither sprang Dick, now out of reach of the axe of the Swiss
and now beneath his guard. But ever as he sprang he delivered blow upon
blow, each harder than the last, till there appeared scars and rents
in the fine white mail. Soon it became clear that the great Swiss was
overmatched and spent. He breathed heavily, his strokes grew wild, he
over-balanced, recovered himself, and at last in his turn began to fly
in good earnest.
Now after him went Dick, battering at his back, but, as all might see,
with the flat of his axe, not with its edge. Yes, he was beating him as
a man might beat a carpet, beating him till he roared with pain.
"Fight, Ambrosio, fight! Don't fly!" shouted the crowd, and he tried to
wheel round, only to be knocked prostrate by a single blow upon the head
which the Englishman delivered with the hammer-like back of his axe.
Then Dick was seen to kneel upon him and cut the lashings of his helmet
with his dagger, doubtless to give the _coup de grace_, or so they
thought.
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