Little by little Bora was forced backwards, till at last further retreat was rendered impossible by the cord attached to his ankle; yet farther back he must go if he must avoid that sabre-point, which, swift and deadly as the tongue of a serpent, glittered continually within an inch of his face and breast.
His strength was ebbing fast; his arm had grown completely wearied by the constant parrying; he longed to throw away his weapon and cry for mercy; but for the restraining cord he would have cast himself at the feet of the Czar to implore his intervention. The despair pictured on his face produced a painful feeling among the more sensitive portion of the spectators.
With vision continually blurred by the great drops of sweat that hung from his eyebrows, the duke struggled on, till at last came the end.
Tempted from his defensive Bora made a sudden thrust, and his sabre-point entered a tiny orifice in the ornamental work that formed the cross-guard of Paul's sword. Lunging with wild vehemence, Bora was unable to check his impetus, and the result was that the blade of his weapon instantaneously curved upwards with such force as to snap in two, while at the same moment Paul's sabre, darting forward horizontally, entered the duke's breast, and passed out under his left shoulder.
Bora's arms flew aloft with a convulsive jerk; the fragment of his blade dropped with a ringing sound upon the pavement; he gave a strange gasping sigh, and then his body slid from Paul's blade and lay on the floor in a huddled heap.
"Now, I call that a very pretty fight," remarked Zabern.
A long shout of triumph arose from the Poles, followed a few seconds later by a tremendous roaring from the populace outside, as the white standard flew up the flagstaff, announcing the victory of the princess's champion.
CHAPTER XX
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
As the Czar beheld his champion lying dead, a wave of anger swept over him, suppressed immediately by his stern fortitude.