The coronation-rubric prescribed certain formalities--relics of a mediaeval usage--in connection with the championing of the sovereign; and these a herald, dressed in the quaint antique costume of his office, proceeded to carry out.

"Let the champions come forward."

Paul, with a smile serene and high, stepped to the appointed place, namely, the s.p.a.ce fronting the choir. Sand had been sprinkled upon the pavement to absorb the blood that might be shed, and to prevent the combatants' feet from slipping.

Bora with a scowling brow faced his opponent.

"Do you, Paul Cressingham Woodville, affirm that she who calls herself Barbara Lilieska is the true and lawful ruler of this princ.i.p.ality of Czernova?"

"I do."

"And do you, John Lilieski, affirm that you yourself are the true and lawful ruler of this princ.i.p.ality of Czernova?"

"I do."

"And to prove your respective contentions, are you each willing to submit to the ordeal of battle?"

The champions signified their a.s.sent.

The herald then proceeded to explain the conditions that were to regulate the combat. Swords of a certain length were to be the weapons used. From beginning to end the duel was to be continuous without any interval for rest or refreshment. Each was to fight till his opponent should be destroyed, for quarter was neither to be given nor accepted, and though the life-blood were being drained from the combatants the wounds were not to be stanched.

By a solemn oath repeated after the herald, each champion bound himself to observe these regulations. Hence it was certain that one, possibly both, would not leave the cathedral alive, a fact which imparted a terrible interest to the coming combat.

"No quarter! that's a good rule," remarked Zabern to Katina, who sat beside him. "The craven duke would be begging for his life, and we want no more Boras in Czernova."

"The champions will now take their position for the combat," cried the herald.

The duellist when hard pressed is apt to give way before his opponent.

In the present case, however, advance or retreat, save within very narrow limits, was rendered impossible.

Fixed in the stone flooring was a ring of bra.s.s designed for raising a slab that covered a stairway leading to a crypt below. The right ankle of each combatant was attached to this same ring by a strong cord six feet in length, thus confining their movements within a circle of four yards in diameter.

These preparations raised the interest of the spectators to a high pitch. A dreadful sensation thrilled the ladies present as they watched the champions during the process of cording; the men, more cool and critical, strove to predict the victor from the physique presented by each of the opponents.

Judged thus, the advantage seemed to be on the side of the duke, whose frame was powerful and ma.s.sive; Paul was not equal in stature to his antagonist, was of more slender build, and any superiority derivable from his greater activity was somewhat nullified by the restraining cord.

The circ.u.mstances attending this combat contributed to render it unique in the annals of Czernovese duelling.

The one champion, Bora, stimulated by the presence of his imperial patron, the mighty Czar, fought to gain a crown; the other, Paul, for the hand of a fair princess. There was a coloring of romance about the affair strongly suggestive of the days of chivalry, and this was enhanced by the quaint character of the ritual employed.

Each of the Czernovese factions was confident of the success of its champion. The Muscovites boasted of the duke's thirty duels, from all of which he had emerged victorious without taking a wound. The Poles had no such record to show on behalf of their champion; his brilliant feat in the _salle d'armes_ was unknown to them, but they had marked Zabern while Paul was lifting the duke's glove, and they felt that the marshal must have had good cause for the grim joy that had appeared on his face. Moreover, Paul's gallant defence of Taj.a.pore was still fresh in their minds; his triumph over the Czar's policy in the East was an augury of a similar triumph in the West, and contributed to give a piquant zest to the coming duel. At any rate, his cold, flashing eye, compressed lips and resolute mien showed that he was a dangerous opponent.

As soon as Paul had removed his coat and vest the herald placed his hand beneath his shirt.

"To ascertain whether you wear an under-tunic of mail," he explained in answer to Paul's look of surprise.

"Do you deem me a person of so little honor?"

"This scrutiny is so enjoined by the rubric," remarked the herald, as he subjected Bora to the same inspection.

The weapons next occupied the herald's attention.

The duke had come prepared for the contest, and hence his blade was of the length prescribed by the statute; Paul's sword fell short of this by two inches, and though he much preferred to fight with his own weapon, the herald would not permit him to do so.

"My blade is of the requisite length," said Zabern, "and I can warrant it tried steel. Take it; you will make it historic. It has already shed the blood of a cardinal; why not that of a duke? There will be a sort of poetic justice in despatching the princess's two enemies with the same weapon."

"You seem very confident, marshal," sneered Bora.

"Very confident, your grace. You see there's no princess to intervene this time."

The herald having tested the length and flexibility of Zabern's sword returned it to the marshal, saying, as he did so,--

"Pierce your skin with the point."

Zabern instantly p.r.i.c.ked the palm of his hand till the blood flowed, while the duke did the like with his own weapon.

The puzzled Paul looked inquiringly at Zabern, who explained that it was an old usage in Czernova, adopted as a precaution against poisoned blades.

The two combatants were now bidden to stand as far apart as the cords would permit, and each after kissing his blade held it vertically aloft, repeating after the herald the following oath,--

"Hear, O ye people, that I have this day neither eaten nor drunk aught, nor have I upon my person either charm or amulet, nor have I practised any enchantment or sorcery, whereby the law of Heaven may be abased, or the law of Satan be exalted. So help me G.o.d and His saints!"

Very absurd and mediaeval, no doubt, but being a part of the ancient ritual its enunciation was required from each champion.

The news of the coming duel had been announced to the populace without, and their cries of excitement contrasted strangely with the deadly stillness that reigned within the interior of the fane.

Upon that part of the cathedral roof that overlooked the square, a group of soldiers could be seen standing about a flag-staff, at the foot of which were two banners, one white, the other black. The eyes of all the people below were set upon this flag-staff, when it became known that the hoisting of the white standard would signify the triumph of the princess's champion, and the black standard his defeat.

The time for the great contest had now come, and the herald stepped backward a few paces.

"May Heaven defend the right! In the name of G.o.d--fight!"

As the blades clashed together the spectators drew a deep breath. The time occupied by the preliminaries, though in reality very brief, had seemed so long that the beginning of the duel came as an actual relief.

A shiver of expectancy ran around the cathedral. Five thousand pairs of eyes were riveted upon the choir, and upon naught else. The loveliest lady present might have sighed in vain for a single glance.

Abbot Faustus had sunk upon his knees by the altar, and was now telling his beads, but though his spiritual eyes might be directed towards heaven, his earthly vision was certainly fixed upon the two combatants, as Katina observed to Zabern.

"Well, he can cite Moses as a precedent," remarked the marshal, as he sat down to watch the fray. Loving a good fight, Zabern viewed the present spectacle with a real sense of enjoyment, untroubled by any doubt as to the result.

The Czar, with his strong liking for everything military, was likewise in his element. He sat, bent forward, resting the point of his sabre upon the pavement, and his hands upon the hilt, prepared to view the display of swordsmanship with the critical eye of a _maitre d'armes_, as confident in the triumph of Bora as Zabern was in that of Paul.

The Duke of Bora, burning to distinguish himself in the presence of the Czar, and apparently desirous of terminating the combat in the shortest s.p.a.ce of time possible, made so furious an attack upon Paul that the latter could do no more than remain on the defensive. So weighty was the descent of Bora's blade that Paul's arm tingled at each shock; so swift his tierce that his sabre-point was often swept aside when within an inch only of Paul's breast. In truth the eye could scarcely follow the movement of the blades, which in their rapidity resembled flashes of light, rather than pieces of steel wielded by human hands.

The duke pressed his adversary yet harder, compelling him to recede inch by inch to the end of his tether, a retrogression which, added to the fact that Paul did not return the cut and thrust of his opponent, occasioned grave misgiving in the minds of the Polish spectators.

"Our champion has degenerated since the day he surprised us in the _salle d'armes_," murmured the premier in alarm.

"Bah! my good Radzivil," returned Zabern confidently, "cannot you see that he is letting the duke exhaust himself? Bora is rash in thus pouring out his strength like water. This is too violent to last long.