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.
Tököly 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 today, 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 grass 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 grass, 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 masterstrokes 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 Tököly; 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 Tököly 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 Tököly calmly,
