Marko meets Moussa
Then Marko mounted his Sharatz and rode off to the sea, seeking and inquiring all the way for Moussa. One morning early he rode up the defile Katchanik, when suddenly he saw Moussa Kessedjiya, calmly seated on his black steed with his legs crossed, throwing his mace to the clouds and catching it again in his right hand. When the two knights met, Marko said to Moussa: “Knightly Moussa, move aside and leave the path free for my Sharatz to pass! Move aside or bow before me!”
To this Moussa answered: “Pass on quietly, Marko, do not start a quarrel. Better still, let us dismount and take refreshment together. I shall never move aside to make way for thee. I know well that thou wert born of a queen in a palace, and wert laid upon silken cushions. Doubtless thy mother wrapped thee in pure silk, and fastened the silk with golden thread, and gave thee honey and sugar; my mother was a poor, wild Albanian, and I was born on the cold rocks near the sheep she was tending, and she wrapped me in a rough, black cloth, tying it on to me with bramble twigs; she fed me on oatmeal—but above all things she always made me swear that I should never move aside for anybody.”
Hearing this, Marko of Prilip aimed his lance at Moussa’s breast, but the fierce Albanian received it on his warrior-mace, and it glanced off, whizzing high above his head. Then Moussa threw his own lance, aiming at Marko’s breast, but the princely hero received it on his club and it broke in three. They next unsheathed their swords and attacked each other at close quarters. Marko gave a great stroke, but Moussa interposed his mace and the sword was shattered. Instantly Moussa raised his own sword to strike his adversary, but Marko, in the like manner, received it upon his club and the weapon snapped in two near its hilt. Then they began labouring each other with their maces until these broke too. They next dismounted and seized each other fiercely. The famous heroes were equally matched for once, the knightly Moussa against the princely Marko. Moussa could neither throw Marko down, nor could Marko overcome Moussa. For a whole summer’s morning did they wrestle together. At about noon, white foam rose on Moussa’s lips, and Marko’s lips were covered with blood and foam. Then Moussa exclaimed: “Do throw me down, O Marko! or, if you cannot do it, let me throw you down!” Marko did all he could, but his attempts were vain. Seeing this, Moussa exerted his last remnants of strength and, lifting Marko from the ground, he threw him on to the grass and pressed his knees on his breast.
Marko, in great danger, exclaimed: “Where art thou now, my sister-in-God, thou Veela? Where art thou to-day, mayst thou live no longer! Now I see thine oath was false when thou didst sware to me that whenever I should be in distress, thou wouldst help me!”
The veela appeared from behind the clouds, saying: “O my brother, Royal Prince Marko! Hast thou forgotten my words: That thou shouldst never fight on Sunday? I cannot help thee, for it would not be fair that two should fight against one. Where are thy secret poniards?”
Moussa cast a glance to the clouds to see where the voice came from, and this was his undoing, for Marko seized the moment, drew out a secret blade, and with a sudden fierce stroke cut Moussa so that his body was opened from his waist to his neck.
Marko disengaged himself with difficulty from the embraces of the horrible Moussa, and as the body lay upon its back the Prince discovered through the gaping wound that his adversary had three rows of ribs and three hearts. One of the hearts had collapsed; another was still beating excitedly; on the third a serpent was just awaking, and as it saw Marko it hissed: “Praise God, O Royal Prince Marko, that I still slept while Moussa was alive—for a three hundred fold misfortune would surely otherwise have befallen thee!”
When Marko heard this, tears poured down his cheeks and he lamented: “Alas! Gracious God forgive me, I have killed a better knight than I am!”
Then he struck off Moussa’s head with his sword, put it into Sharatz’s nose-bag and returned triumphantly to Istamboul. When he flung the head of Moussa before the Sultan the monarch was so horrified that he sprang to his feet. “Do not fear the dead, O gracious Sultan! If thou art frightened by the sight of Moussa’s head, what wouldst thou have done if thou hadst met him alive?”
The Sultan gave three tovars of gold to Marko, who returned to his castle at Prilip.
As for Moussa the Bully, he remained on the top of Katchanik Mountain.