So ran the stories, the one outdoing the other.
At last, one day, just before the opposing forces began the clash of arms, the armies stood thrilling, aghast, expectant, as a tall young figure rode out alone, and in a voice that echoed and re-echoed, challenged Abdul-Risâk, the usurper, to single combat.
The challenge was refused.
"Then send your best man," cried Babar, "and may God show the right."
There was a pause; and then from out the rank and file of the insurgents rode one Ali-Beg, and a chorus of approval went up on both sides.
The opponents were well matched. Both young, both in the very pink of training.
"Art ready, friend?" came Babar's clear joyous voice, and with a dash they were at each other.
"Now God send he remembers the trick of wrist," said Kâsim-Beg under his breath, "for Ali-Beg hath it to perfection. He was my best pupil at Samarkand."
But Babar remembered it. How, he felt, could he forget anything with so much for which to fight? His eyes blazed, not with anger--what cared he for the actual enemy?--he was but the dummy of possible defeat--but with calm will. He meant to disarm this fellow--not to hurt him.
The horses reeled against each other, the sword arms were interlocked, for Babar, at close quarters, would not let his antagonist break loose.