"Don't provoke me, Ráby! I tell you we will have it out here."
"Well, draw then!"
Petray thus urged, endeavoured to draw his sword in earnest from his belt, but that otherwise excellent weapon had never been used since the last Prussian war, and stuck so fast in its sheath that the most powerful tugs quite failed to move it.
Come out it would not. Mr. Petray pulled and tugged to no avail; the blade would not yield an inch.
"Good heavens," cried Ráby impatiently, "hand it over to me, I will make it come out."
And hereupon the two opponents pulled away with might and main at the refractory weapon; Ráby seizing the sheath, and Petray the handle, indulged in a very tug-of-war, but to no purpose; the sword stuck where it was, and did not budge, while the two adversaries were bathed in perspiration with their unavailing efforts.
Had anyone ever seen such an absurd struggle?
Petray was foaming with rage.
"Deuce take the thing! If you want to come to grips, let's fight it out with our fists! There I can be sure of my resources. I'll smash you up, I promise you, so there won't be anything left of you."
"All right," retorted Ráby, and lifting up the sleeve of his dolman, he put himself into a boxer's attitude, and struck Petray two ringing blows with his bare muscular arm, that sent his opponent fairly reeling from sheer astonishment.