Whilst the judge dipped once more into the cash-box, the executioner went for weapons, and shortly reappeared with a couple of enormous scimitars, which he placed in the hands of the combatants.
A dead silence fell upon the eager crowd, who longed for the fight to commence.
"Are you ready?" demanded the bashaw.
"N-n-n-no, I'm not," faltered the orphan, whose ferocity had entirely disappeared with the loss of his flute; "I'm not a fighting man, and I don't like fighting with swords—I might get hurt. I would rather forgive Mr. Bosja than kill him."
His opponent evinced his satisfaction at this humane proposal by a ghastly smile.
But his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth with terror, and he said nothing.
But the bashaw was not to be thwarted in this manner.
"It is my will that you fight," he said, in a determined tone; "and fight you must, or each find a substitute."
The combatants strained their eyes eagerly amongst the crowd.
But no one volunteered to take their places.