The Slaves of the Padishah Part 3

After going about a hundred yards they came to a clear s.p.a.ce, surrounded by some fine ash-trees. The Prince signified to the soldiers to stop here, and, without a word, began to take off his dolman and mantle and tuck up his sleeves.

It was a fine sight to behold these men--all three of them were remarkably handsome fellows. The Prince was one of those vigorous, muscular shapes, whom Nature herself seems specially to have created to head a host. As he rolled up the flapping sleeves of his gold-embroidered, calf-skin shirt, he displayed muscles capable of holding their own single-handed against a whole brigade, and the defiant look of his eye testified to his confidence in the strength of his arms, whose every muscle stood out like a hard tumour, while his fists were worthy of the heavy broadsword, whose blade was broadest towards its point.

Feriz Beg, on discarding his dolman, rolled up the sleeves of his fine shirt of Turkish linen to his shoulders, and drew from its sheath his fine Damascus scimitar, which was scarce two inches broad, and so flexible that you could have bent it double in every direction like a watch-spring. His arms did not seem to be over-enc.u.mbered with muscles, but at the first movement he made, as he lightly tested his blade, a whole array of steel springs and stone-hard sinews, or so they seemed to be, suddenly started up upon his arm, revealing a whole network of highly-developed sinews and muscles. His face was fixed and grave.

Only Emeric seemed to take the whole affair as a light joke. With a smile he drew up his lace-embroidered shirt of holland linen, bound up his hair beneath his kalpag, and folded his well-rounded arms, whose feminine whiteness, plastic, regular symmetry, and slender proportions, gave no promise whatever of anything like manly strength. His sword came from a famous Newcastle arms manufactory, and was made of a certain dark, lilac-coloured steel, somewhat bent, and with a very fine point.

"My friends," said Emeric, turning towards his opponents, "as there are three of us in this contest, and each one of the three must fight the other two, let us lay down some rule to regulate the encounter."

"I'll fight the pair of you together," said the Prince haughtily.

"I'll also fight one against two," retorted Feriz.

"Then each one for himself and everybody against everybody else,"

explained Tokoly. "That will certainly be amusing enough; in fact, a new sort of encounter altogether, though hardly what gentlemen are used to.

Now, I should consider it much n.o.bler if we fought against each other singly, and when one of us falls, the victor can renew the combat with the man in reserve."

"I don't mind, only the sooner the better," said the Prince impatiently, and took up his position on the ground.

"Stop, my friend; don't you know that we cannot commence this contest without Feriz?"

"Pooh! I didn't come here as a spectator," cried the Prince pa.s.sionately; "besides, I have nothing to do with the Beg."

"But I have to do with you," interrupted Feriz.

"Well," said Tokoly, "I myself do not know what has offended him, but he chose to intervene, and such challenges as his are wont to be accepted without asking the reason why. No doubt he has private reasons of his own."

"You may stop there," interrupted Feriz. "Let Fate decide."

"By all means," observed the Count, drawing forth three pieces of money impressed with the image of King Sigismund--a gold coin, a silver coin, and a copper coin--and handed them to the Turkish leech. "Take these pieces of money, my worthy fellow, and throw them into the air. The gold coin is the Prince, the copper coin is myself. Whichever two of the three coins come down on the same side, their representatives will fight first."

The leech flung the pieces into the air, and the gold and silver pieces came down on the same side.

The Prince beckoned angrily to Feriz.

"Come, the sooner the better. Apparently I must have this little affair off my hands before I can get at Tokoly."

Tokoly motioned to the leech to keep the pieces of money and have his bandages ready.

"Bandages!" said the Prince ironically. "It's not first blood, but last blood, I'm after."

And now the combatants stood face to face.

For a long time they looked into each other's eyes, as if they would begin the contest with the darts of flashing glances, and then suddenly they fell to.

The Prince's onset was as furious as if he would have crushed his opponent in the twinkling of an eye with the heavy and violent blows which he rained upon him with all his might. But Feriz Beg stood firmly on the self-same spot where he had first planted his feet, and though he was obliged to bend backwards a little to avoid the impact of the terrible blows, yet his slender Damascus scimitar, wove, as it were, a tent of lightning flashes all around him, defending him on every side, and flashing sparks now hither, now thither, whenever it encountered the antagonistic broadsword.

The Prince's face was purple with rage. "Miserable puppy!" he thundered, gnashing his teeth; and, pressing still closer on his opponent, he dealt him two or three such terrible blows that the Beg was beaten down upon one knee, and, the same instant, a jet of blood leaped suddenly from somewhere into the face of the Prince, who thereupon staggered back and let fall his sword. In the heat of the duel he had not noticed that he had been wounded. Whilst raining down a torrent of violent blows upon his antagonist, he incautiously struck his own hand, so to speak, on the sword of Feriz Beg, just below the palm where the arteries are, and the wound which severed the sinews of the wrist constrained him to drop his sword.

Tokoly at once rushed forward.

"You are wounded, Prince!" he cried.

The leech hastened forward with the bandages, the dark red blood spurted from the severed arteries like a fountain, and the Prince's face grew pale in an instant. But scarcely had the surgeon bound up his wounded right hand than his eye kindled again, and, turning to Emeric, he cried: "I have still a hand left, and I can fight with it. Put my sword into my left hand, and I'll fight to the last drop of my blood."

"Don't be impatient, Prince," said Emeric courteously; "ill-luck is your enemy to-day, but as soon as you are cured you may command me, and I will be at your service."

The Prince, who was already tottering, leaned heavily on his soldiers, who hastened towards him and conveyed him half unconscious to the carriage awaiting him. His wound was much worse than it had seemed at first, and there was no knowing whether it would not prove mortal.

Only two combatants now remained in the field--Emeric and Feriz. The Beg was still standing in his former place, and beckoned in dumb show to Emeric to come on.

"Pardon me, my worthy comrade," said the Count, "you are a little fatigued, and a combat between us would be unfair if I, who have rested, should fight with you now. Come, plump down on the gra.s.s for a little beside me. My man has brought some cold provisions for the journey; let us have a few mouthfuls together first, and then we can fight it out at our ease."

This nonchalant proposal seemed to please Feriz, and, leaning his sword against a tree, he sat down in the gra.s.s, whilst Emeric's servant unpacked the cold meat and the fruit which he had brought for his master, together with a silver calabash-shaped flask full of wine.

Emeric returned the flask to the soldier. "Look you, my son," said he, "you can drink the wine, and then fill the flask with spring water, for Feriz Beg does not drink wine, and there are no other drinking utensils; I, therefore, will also drink water, and so we shall be equal." Feriz Beg was pleased with his comrade's free and easy behaviour, took willingly of the food piled up before him, and not only drank out of the same flask, but even answered questions when they were put to him.

A faint scar was visible on the forehead of the young Beg, which the fold of his turban did not quite conceal.

"Did you get that wound from a Magyar?" inquired the Count.

"No, from an Italian, on the isle of Candia."

"I thought so at once. A Magyar does not cut with the point of his sword. I see the hand of an Italian fencing-master in it. I can even tell you the position you were in when you received it. The enemy was beside you, in front of you, on your right hand, and on your left. Now you employed that masterly circular stroke which you have just now displayed, whereby you can defend yourself on all sides at once. Then the foe in front of you suddenly rose in his saddle, and with a blow which you did not completely ward off, scarred your forehead with the point of his sword."

"It was just like that."

"It is one of the master-strokes of Basanella, and very carefully you have to watch it, for there is scarce any defence against it; the sword seems to strike up and down in the same instant, as if it were a sickle, and however high you may hold your own sword, the blow breaks through your defence. There is, indeed, only one defence against it, and that the simplest in the world--dodge back your head."

"You are quite right," said Feriz Beg smiling, and after washing his hands, he again took up his sword, "let us make an end of it."

"I don't mind," said Tokoly; and lightly drawing his own sword with his delicate white hand, just as if it were a gewgaw which he was disengaging from its case to present to a lady, he took up his position on the ground.

"Just one word more," said Tokoly with friendly candour. "When you fight with a single opponent, do not rush forward as if you were on a battlefield and had to do with ten men at least, for in so doing you expend much force uselessly, and allow your opponent to come up closer; rather elongate your sword and allow only your hand to play freely."

"I thank you for the advice," said Feriz smiling. Had it been anybody else he would probably have thrust back the advice into his face. But Emeric imparted it to him with such a friendly, comrade-like voice as if they had only come there for the fun of the thing.

Then the combat began. Feriz Beg, with his usual impetuosity, pressed upon his adversary as if he would pay him back his amicable counsels in kind; while Tokoly calmly, composedly smiling, flung back the most violent a.s.saults of his rival as if it were a mere sport to him, so lightly, so confidently did his sword turn in his hand, with so much finished grace did he accompany every movement--in fact, he hardly seemed to make any exertion. The most violent blows aimed at him by Feriz Beg he parried with the lightest twist of his sword, and not once did he counter, so that at last Feriz Beg, involuntarily overcome by rage, fell back and lowered his sword.

"You are only playing with me. Why don't you strike back?"

"Twice you might have received from me Basanella's master-stroke, so impetuously do you fight."

In a duel nothing is so wounding as the supercilious self-restraint of an opponent. Feriz Beg grew quite furious at Tokoly's cold repose, and flung himself upon his opponent as if absolutely beside himself.

"Let us see whether you are the Devil or not," he cried.

At the same instant, when he had advanced a pace nearer to Tokoly, the latter suddenly stretched forth his sword and at the instant when he parried his opponent's blow, he made a scarce perceptible backward and upward jerk with the point of his sword, and at that same instant a burning red line was visible on the temples of Feriz Beg. The young Turk lowered his sword in surprise as his face, immediately after the unnoticed stroke, began to bleed. Tokoly flung away his sword and, tearing out his white pocket-handkerchief, rushed suddenly towards his opponent, stanched the wound with the liveliest sympathy, and said, in a voice tremulous with the most nave apprehension: "Look now! didn't I tell you all along to watch for that stroke?"