“By the living God,” he muttered, as he put his hand slowly into mine.
“Here’s your knife,” I said next, returning it to him.
He drew back, his surprise greater even than before.
“You trust it to me?” He took it in the same slow hesitating manner; and then with a quick change of manner he set his heel on it and with a fierce and savage tug at the haft, he broke the bright blade in two.
“It’s been raised against you; and I’m your man now and for always,” and down he went on one knee, and seizing my hand kissed it, and then laid it on his head.
Demonstrative folk these rough wild hill men of Eastern Europe, and I knew the significance of this act of personal homage.
So did the others who had watched this quaint result of the fight with the same breathless interest as they had followed the fight itself.
“If you serve me well you’ll find I can pay better than I can fight, Karasch,” I said, as he rose.
“I’m not serving for pay now,” he replied simply. “I serve you. My life is yours. Gartski, go and saddle a couple of the horses.”
“What for?” I asked.