Ah! said I not so? First blood to us!"

The duke had failed to preserve his guard, and as a result Paul's weapon had penetrated his side to the depth of a quarter of an inch, a feat performed with such quickness that though all were watching, few perceived it.

"The duke is wounded."

"He is not."

Doubt vanished with the appearance on Bora's white shirt of a small red disk that began slowly to expand.

Zabern smiled grimly at the bewilderment of the duke, whose air resembled that of a bull in the Spanish arena when first pierced by the dart of the banderillero--the air of amazement as to how the thing could have happened, mingled with incredulity that any one should have ventured to play such a trick upon him.

This was the first wound ever received by him in his character as duellist, and the blow thus given to his prestige stung the duke far more than the mere physical pain caused by the stab. Its occurrence, however, at this stage was timely, for it served to check his fiery conceit and to teach him caution; it behoved him to guard as well as to a.s.sail.

Paul's vigilance in detecting an error on his adversary's part raised the spirit of the Poles to a high degree, while the feeling of the Muscovites underwent a corresponding depression.

"Good for the Englishman," cried a Pole.

"He is the duke's match," exclaimed a second.

The combat being now waged with more caution on the part of the duke, there ensued a really brilliant display of swordsmanship, which, interesting to the civilians, was far more so to the military officers present, from whom came subdued murmurs of admiration.

"Humph!" said Zabern, conscious that the duke was now in his best form. "The great Napoleon, with whom I once dined, made remark to me, 'Scratch a Russ, and you will find a Tartar.' In the present instance, however, the scratch seems to have made our Russ more cool."

The Czar, who had overheard these words, so far permitted his curiosity to overcome his dislike of Zabern as to ask coldly,--

"Where did you dine with Napoleon?"

"Beneath the roof of the Kremlin, sire," replied Zabern, with an ironical salute.

The emperor repressed his wrath, and turned again to view the strife.

Every movement of the blades was watched in fear and trembling by the Polish spectators, who felt that it was a fight betwixt liberty and despotism; a mortal thrust on the part of the duke would leave them but a shadow of that freedom which they had enjoyed under the _regime_ of the princess.

Many of the ladies present, unable to endure the sight, averted their eyes, and then, impelled by a dreadful curiosity, turned to gaze again. Some looked on with handkerchiefs pressed to their mouths to check the screams which might have disconcerted the combatants.

Intense emotion caused a few to swoon away.

The tide seemed to be turning in favor of Paul. He began to press the duke, whose strength was beginning to fail. Mighty in a first onset, he lacked the steady endurance of his adversary. Suddenly, while bending sideways to avoid a thrust which he had failed to parry, Bora lost his balance and fell. In falling, his sword flew from his hand.

And there he was, resting upon one knee, defenceless, at the mercy of his opponent.

The spirit of chivalry restrained Paul from giving the fatal stroke.

"I cannot slay an unarmed man," he said.

"What folly is this?" cried Zabern, starting up in wrath. "Did he spare Trevisa? Would he spare you if you were now in his place? This is no time for generosity or mercy. The princess's throne is at stake.

Strike and spare not."

Bora neither moved nor spoke, awaiting his end in trembling terror.

Paul's refusal to strike evoked the long-suppressed feelings of the Poles.

"Kill! kill!"

The lofty arches rang with excited cries. Even tender ladies, carried away by the heat of the moment, added their voices to those of the men. Paul, looking around upon the a.s.sembly, saw nothing but a forest of waving hands, and a mult.i.tude of fierce-gleaming eyes urging him to the b.l.o.o.d.y work.

"No quarter can be granted," said the herald. "You have each sworn an oath to slay, or be slain."

But inasmuch as Paul was not to be moved from his purpose, there was no other course left than to permit the duke to resume the combat.

"You have given him time to recover himself," grumbled Zabern, as he sat down again. "It is a violation of the rules."

During his discomfiture, Bora had glanced more than once at the Czar, as if supplicating his intervention. But the emperor sat impa.s.sive as a statue, ignoring the silent appeal. Relying on the duke's boastful a.s.surances of victory, Nicholas had a.s.sented to the policy of the duel as a convenient and const.i.tutional way of deposing the princess. It now seemed that this plan would fail. Then let the duke pay the penalty merited by his presumption. Woe to the man who deceives the Czar! Bora's heart sank within him at sight of the emperor's cold face.

The contest now entered upon its last, its fatal phase.

Equality had disappeared between the two champions; the duel was virtually over; the result known to all present; it was merely a question of time.

And the person most conscious of this was the duke himself. His confident swagger had vanished. He was fighting now, not for glory or a throne, but for dear life itself.

He made no attempt to a.s.sail Paul. Why should he? He could do no more than he had done. He had tried again and again to reach his adversary, and with graceful ease Paul had parried each cut and tierce. He could escape death only by some negligence on the part of his opponent, but that opponent was too keen to be caught erring.

Little by little Bora was forced backwards, till at last further retreat was rendered impossible by the cord attached to his ankle; yet farther back he must go if he must avoid that sabre-point, which, swift and deadly as the tongue of a serpent, glittered continually within an inch of his face and breast.

His strength was ebbing fast; his arm had grown completely wearied by the constant parrying; he longed to throw away his weapon and cry for mercy; but for the restraining cord he would have cast himself at the feet of the Czar to implore his intervention. The despair pictured on his face produced a painful feeling among the more sensitive portion of the spectators.

With vision continually blurred by the great drops of sweat that hung from his eyebrows, the duke struggled on, till at last came the end.

Tempted from his defensive Bora made a sudden thrust, and his sabre-point entered a tiny orifice in the ornamental work that formed the cross-guard of Paul's sword. Lunging with wild vehemence, Bora was unable to check his impetus, and the result was that the blade of his weapon instantaneously curved upwards with such force as to snap in two, while at the same moment Paul's sabre, darting forward horizontally, entered the duke's breast, and pa.s.sed out under his left shoulder.

Bora's arms flew aloft with a convulsive jerk; the fragment of his blade dropped with a ringing sound upon the pavement; he gave a strange gasping sigh, and then his body slid from Paul's blade and lay on the floor in a huddled heap.

"Now, I call that a very pretty fight," remarked Zabern.

A long shout of triumph arose from the Poles, followed a few seconds later by a tremendous roaring from the populace outside, as the white standard flew up the flagstaff, announcing the victory of the princess's champion.

CHAPTER XX

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

As the Czar beheld his champion lying dead, a wave of anger swept over him, suppressed immediately by his stern fort.i.tude.

"The word of the Czar is sacred," he cried, rising from his seat and addressing the a.s.sembly. "Barbara Lilieska is Princess of Czernova.

Let the coronation proceed."

Paul, released from the cord that had confined him to the place of combat, here turned and confronted the emperor.