He meant to say more, and to insult her, but I forced my horse between and he found my sword-point at his throat.
“Back, monsieur,” I said pleasantly, and smiled; “back, or you will drink blood for your breakfast!”
But he was no coward, and rode like a Cossack.
“To the devil with you, you French smith!” he cried contemptuously, and our swords crossed, the sparks flying as the steel ground. His horse, a fiery beast, plunged and I missed giving him a thrust over his guard, as I had given M. d’Argenson, on the Place Royale. Then he wheeled quickly, and tried to stab me in the side, and I parried, my beast answering the bit well, but I saw I had my match, not trained in a Parisian school, but a born swordsmen, as I think some men are. Moreover, the thought of his humiliation in the painted gallery, of his stolen bride, stung him to fury: he would have torn me to pieces with the joy of a savage. We fought desperately, therefore, and the horses, plunging and backing, kept us whirling in a circle, thrusting here and missing there, and then clashing fiercely; once he drew blood on my arm and once I touched his throat.
The Princess Daria’s horse had carried her a few yards away, and there she held him, looking back, rooted, as it seemed, to the spot, though I shouted to her to ride on. The swords whirled and ground together, and in a flash I saw the whole scene and remembered it; the glory of the sky, the wide sweep of land, the shadows of the sycamores, and the sharp outline of her figure and her face, white as a pearl. But, all the while, I had much ado to keep his steel from my heart, and verily, I think the man fought more like a fiend than a human. The sun had risen and sometimes it shone in my eyes, sometimes in his, as our beasts moved to and fro, and sometimes the flash and sparkle of it on our blades was blinding and once—when he almost thrust me in the breast—I heard the princess cry out sharply.
Then I rose in my stirrups and he in his, and for a moment our steels ground out fire. I saw his bloodshot eyes and heard his laboured breathing; the man was tired and so was I, and yet I must wear him out or give her up to him, and he—the barbarian devil—he knew that he must kill me or give her up to me!
I had the longer sword, and once I thought I had him, but he parried and well-nigh caught me under the arm-pit, and then I wheeled my horse quickly and lunged at him, our swords clashed, and at the sound, his beast plunged widely from me, reared up and pawed the air, while I saw Kurakin’s face turn pale as ashes, and then the beast fell over backward and rolled on his rider. My own horse careered wildly, and the other brute turned over and got to his feet and was running with an empty saddle, before I could approach his master. Kurakin lay in a heap on the ground, and I leaped down and turned him over; his neck was broken and he lay there, in the mire, stone-dead.
I turned and saw the princess holding in her horse, for he, too, was restive, and her face was perfectly colourless.
Without a word I mounted and rode forward, and she sat looking back with dilated eyes.
“Will you leave him so?” she cried; “is he dead?”