"Take it, pig of an idolator! Jug-dân, Jug-dân--the Gift of Battle!"
The still, hot air became full of faint chinkings, as buckles were settled straight, scabbards thrown aside. Then there was an instance silence as the two old warriors faced each other.
"Art ready ... friend?" The question came softly.
"Yea! I am ready ... friend!" The reply was almost a caress.
So, with a quick clash of sword on sword, youth and health and strength came back to the Hereditary Enemies.
* * * * *
It matters little if the combat ended in quarter of an hour, half an hour, or an hour; whether Bikrama Singh or Buktiyar Khân got in the first blow. The moon shone peacefully on the Gift of Battle. She still hung a white shield on the grey skies of dawn when Tim O'Brien and the police officer, coming to do their disagreeable duty, found the two old men lying stone dead within swords' thrust of each other on the stubble.
"They are really an incomprehensible lot," said the police officer, almost mournfully; "why the deuce should the two poor old buffers come out and kill each other, as presumably they have----"
Tim O'Brien smiled a grim smile. "You haven't heard, I suppose--why should ye--of what they call the Gift of Battle! Well! I have. It's an ould Rajput custom by which a man who feared he'd die in his bed or be put to it any way by any other stupid inept limitations, could claim a decent death from his nearest foe."
"Well! they've done it. That's all, and small blame to them."