"I will have your coat of arms nailed up in my stable."
"And I will have your hide stuffed with sawdust and use it for a scarecrow."
"You rebel of a slave!"
"You barber's apprentice made into a general!"
Every taunt was accompanied with a fresh thrust.
"You shameless kidnapper!" shouted the pasha. "You carry off Turkish girls, do you? I will carry off your wife and make her the lowest slave of my harem."
Everything swam before Banfy's eyes; he had received three wounds that took from him all humanity.
"Cursed devil!" he roared, and gnashing his teeth, grasped his tschakany in the middle, bounded nearer to Ali and whirled his weapon with lightning swiftness about his head so that it flew about in his hand like the arms of a windmill, now driving at the opposing shield with the handle and now with the ball-like end of the weapon, serving alike for attack and defence. Ali Pasha, overwhelmed by this unwonted mode of attack tried to withdraw, but the two war-horses shared their masters' struggle by biting each other in the neck and chest and could not be separated. The spahis, who saw their master reel, threw themselves between the two and drove off the hussars surrounding Banfy. When he saw that all his men were fleeing toward the church he quickly let fall one last blow on Ali's shield, which struck through, and as he surmised from Ali's roar, just at the point where the shield fits on the arm. Banfy had no time for a second blow for he was surrounded on all sides. Just then there was heard in the rear of the combatants a familiar braying of trumpets, and a fresh war cry sounding from all sides mingled with the confusion.
"God! Michael Angyal!" George Veer had arrived with his troops.
"God! Michael Angyal!" shouted the leader, towering above the rest in his coat of mail with a bearskin thrown over one shoulder; with a notched club he forced his way through the midst of the surprised Turks.