Pretty Michal

by Mór Jókai

Two horsemen were coming straight at them; one of them was an Albanian in a coat of mail, the other a distinguished Spahi, an Aga at the very least.

The Albanian horseman was covered from head to foot with a coat of scale armor; his horse's head and neck were protected in the same way, and it also bore a huge spike on its forehead, so that the pair looked for all the world like a crocodile mounted on a unicorn, and worthy Simplex was so astonished at this strange sight that he forgot he had a sword in his hand. Besides, thought he, what weapon can cut down a man who is cased in steel? So in his terror he merely held his wolfskin buckler in front of his head, and the Albanian aimed a mighty blow at him with his sword, which was like to have felled him to the ground.

Fortunately Valentine observed the danger of his comrade, and while throwing him a word of encouragement, smote the Albanian so violently on the head with the dagger in his left hand, that the scaly monster immediately plunged headlong from his horse; but at the same time the Spahi aimed a terrific blow at Valentine's neck.

"Don't you touch my son, you heathen you!" cried Dame Sarah from the wagon on the opposite shore; and whether it was the effect of her voice or of Valentine's rapid hand it is difficult to say, but at any rate the youth parried the blow of the Turk so well that he struck the sword out of his hand, and at the same time sliced off a piece of his thumb. Then he seized the Spahi by the collar and led him away captive, the Turk all the time begging for mercy, and promising him a ransom of two hundred gold guldens if he spared his life.

Valentine brought his captive safely to the rear, where the captain praised him for his valor, but said that they had now had quite enough fighting for one day. The skirmish was over. On both sides there were just enough of killed and wounded to satisfy honor, neither more nor less, so that both generals could tell their hosts that they had conquered. Those of the enemy who had not taken flight were cut down, and those who could not work their way out of the morass were drowned. As for the leaders, neither of them had lost a hair, and if either of them cared to fire a haystack on his retreat and claim to have burnt a fortress, no one would be a whit the wiser and his reputation would be made.

But all this time Simplex was nowhere to be found, which greatly embarrassed the whole company, for he had with him the field-trumpet and the kettle-drum of the banderium, and without them they could of course neither beat a recall nor sound a reveille.

But Valentine was more embarrassed than them all, for if Simplex were lost, who was to lead him to his Michal? All that he knew of her at present was that her husband had not taken her to Great Leta as he had promised, but to some other place.

Valentine, therefore, begged the captain to allow him to return to the battlefield with two companions, to search for Simplex on the margin of the morass where they had last fought side by side. The undertaking was not without danger, for bands of marauders were wont to prowl about the battlefield to plunder the fallen and make captive the survivors; so the captain, Count Hommonai, gave Valentine not two, but six horsemen, who were to help seek the field-trumpeter by the borders of the morass.

But Simplex had not been cut down by the Turks after all. Such a glorious death was by no means his ideal. When the battle was raging its fiercest, when the opposing warriors fell upon each other tooth and nail, and there was such a whirring and clashing of lances and battle-axes that it was as much as a man could do to avoid having an eye knocked out—then, I say, Simplex, without thinking twice about it, sprang nimbly from his nag, unbuckled both his kettle-drums, left his steed to its own devices, hid the trumpet in the bushes, and crept himself into a place where the reeds and sedges were thickest. Then when the din of battle was over and everything was quite still again, he crept out of his hiding-place and looked about him.

Here and there a few couples were still fighting in the distance, but all around lay only the bodies of those who had already had their fill of fighting in this life. Close to the swamp, too, he espied the charger of the Albanian horseman. It was quietly grazing, but the Albanian, whose head Valentine had split open, lay on the ground still holding fast the reins in his convulsively clenched fist, so that the horse dragged him along whenever it changed its place. The trumpeter immediately appropriated this beautiful beast. First he loaded him with the kettle-drums, then he took off all the Albanian's finery, hung it on the end of his lance, and so rode toward the camp. Valentine and his comrades met him when he was already half-way there.