The sensitive ears of the blind man "scented" so to speak the well known footfalls while they were still approaching on the distant forest paths.
The young man felt an involuntary shudder run through his body as the moment drew near when he would have to face the hunted foe. The magical mysteriousness which enveloped his pursuer; the marvellous audacity which ensured the success of all his projects; his gigantic bodily strength—all these things were sufficient to make any man's heart beat more quickly at the prospect of encountering Black-Mask in a life and death struggle at a lonely place.
But Szilard was resolved to see the business through. The strong will peculiar to men of his nature broke down his fear. He had no business to tremble, it was not permitted to him to fear. He who has a sword in his hand is never alone—a sword is also a man.
The blind man trembled in his stead. He feared for him. When Szilard returned with his naked sword, the blind man passed his finger along its edge from end to end to test its sharpness.
"A good sword, a very good sword, Domnule. Fear him not, but when he scrambles out of the water, rush upon him and strike at his neck. Do not aim at his body for this accursed one wears a coat of mail so that no weapon can pierce him. If he comes to close quarters, do not defend yourself but slash away at him, you may perhaps be wounded, but if you stand on the defensive, he will kill you. If he gets too much for you, call out and I will rush in and strangle him with my naked hands. Oh, what would I not give now for the sight of my two eyes."
And the blind man began to weep bitterly.
"That man killed my wife and blinded me and now when I hear him approach, when I hear him coming towards me all alone I cannot see him. I cannot rush in and close with him. Be valiant, Domnule, and God be with you. May the soul of my Mariora direct the edge of your sword and darken his eyes. Hearken!—is not that he approaching!"
And it was actually he. The tall elegant figure was descending the moonlight rocks with a light, elastic tread, dressed from head to foot in a black atlas mantle. Szilard saw him drawing nearer and nearer, step by step, to the mill behind a pillar of whose verandah he himself was concealed expectant.
At the very moment when he perceived this figure, his former terror gave way before a strange, resolute fury which now filled his heart, a feeling familiar only to those whose blood is set boiling whenever they are suddenly confronted by a pressing danger. He feared the man no longer, he burned to encounter him.
Blind Juon stood beside him and pressed his hand. They both of them began to listen intently, nature itself was as still as if the wind also would listen. Nothing was audible but the dull measured tramp of the approaching footsteps.