"Storms of Karpath!" shouted Andras, starting up, and kicking the bench from before him; then dashing his cap on the ground, he began tucking up the sleeves of his shirt.
"You want to fight, I suppose?" said the hussar, smiling complacently; "but swords are not made out of scythes, and you had better leave a hussar alone."
"That I shall not, when he touches my bride, were he a dog-faced Tartar! I shall beat him not only out of this, but out of the world too, if he had a thousand souls! I don't care for your sword, Master Hussar;" and loosing the mantle from his neck, the sturdy peasant seized the pole he had brought with him, and held it forth with an arm as knotty as an oak.
"Don't be foolish, now, Andras!" cried the little girl, running over to the pole-gladiator, and endeavouring to pacify him.
"Keep yourself out of the way, Panna," said Andras; "this is no time for trifling; I'll show him who is master here!"
"Why now, Andras, if you are determined to fight, I will get a weapon of your own dimensions," and, laughing gaily, the hussar opened the door and went into the court.
"Bring what you like, the beam of a mill, or an oak-tree, I don't fear you, with six others at your back!" cried the athletic labourer, assuming an offensive and defensive position with his back to the wall.
"Don't be reckoning on us," said the sergeant; "we have nothing to say to you—the lad can stand for himself."
"You will probably part company soon," muttered Andras, waiting with open eyes for the hussar's return.
He appeared at length, with neither a mill-beam nor an oak tree, but a long, slender reed, which he had pulled out of the roof.