Then, looking round, he found the Irishman bearing down
upon him at desperate speed, and but a yard or two away.
In a trice Fairburn darted behind the trunk of a fine tree at his
elbow. It was an oak, from which ran out some magnificent limbs
parallel with and at a distance of six or eight feet from the ground.
Nothing heeding, the Irishman kept on, his sword ready for a mighty
stroke. Then instantly he was swept violently from his horse, and
backwards over the tail, his chest having come into contact with one
of the great boughs. All this had passed like a flash.
George made a grab at the bridle, but, missing it, fell sprawling to
the ground. Springing up, he found his fallen antagonist risen and
upon him. "English dog!" roared the Irishman, and the next moment the
two men were at it, both excited, both reckless.
How long they fought they never knew. Apparently the spot was deserted
save for themselves and sundry wounded who lay around. It was a
desperate encounter. The Irishman had the advantage in height and
strength, Fairburn in youth and activity. In the matter of
swordsmanship there was little to choose between the two; in respect
of courage nothing. It was to be a duel to the death.
The moments flew by, each man had received injuries, and the blood was
flowing freely.
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