“Now,” he said to Trenck, “it is for you to show what you can do with good steel!”
“You risk,” returned the baron, smiling calmly, “you risk, over and above the danger of being wounded, losing that absolute superiority in matters of the sword of which you are so proud.”
“Defend yourself, braggart!” shouted Bach. “Show your skill instead of talking about it.”
He flung himself furiously upon Trenck. The latter, seeming only to trifle lightly with his weapon at first, parried his thrusts, and then pressed the attack in turn, wounding Bach severely in the arm.
The lieutenant’s weapon clattered upon the floor. For an instant he paused, immovable, overcome by amazement; then an irresistible admiration—a supreme tenderness, invaded his soul. He flung himself, weeping, in Trenck’s arms, exclaiming:
“You are my master!”
Then, drawing away from the prisoner, he contemplated him with the same enthusiasm, but more reflectively, and observed:
“Yes, baron, you far exceed me in the use of the sword; you are the greatest duelist of the day, and a man of your caliber must not remain longer in prison.”
The baron was somewhat taken by surprise at this, but, with his usual presence of mind, he immediately set himself to derive such profit as he might from his guardian’s extravagant access of affection.
“Yes, my dear Bach,” he replied, “yes, I should be free for the reason you mention, and by every right, but where is the man who will assist me to escape from these walls?”