When Doushan heard this, he struck his knee with his right hand, exclaiming: “Woe is me! O mighty Creator! If I had now my darling nephews, the two Voïnovitchs, I should not lack a champion.” The tsar had hardly ended his lamentation when Milosh, leading his steed, appeared before the tsar’s tent. “O my Lord, thou mighty tsar!” said he, “have I thy leave to fight this duel?”
The tsar answered: “Thou art welcome, O youthful Bulgar! But, alas, there is slender likelihood that thou canst overpower the haughty hector of the king. If, however, thou dost succeed, verily I will ennoble thee!”
Milosh leaped to his saddle, and as he turned his fiery Koulash from the tsar’s tent, he carelessly threw his lance on his shoulder with its point turned backward. Seeing this, Doushan called to him: “Do not carry, O my son, thy lance so! Turn the point forward, lest the proud Venetians laugh at thee!” But Milosh answered: “Attend, O my tsar, unto thine own dignity, and be not anxious concerning mine! If need arise I shall easily turn my lance correctly; if not, I may just as well bring it back in this wrong wise!”
As Milosh rode on through the field of Ledyen, the ladies and maidens of Ledyen looked upon him, and, laughing, they exclaimed: “Saints in heaven! a marvel! What a substitute for a Serbian emperor! The young man has even no decent clothes upon him! Be merry, thou hector of the king, for hardly shalt thou need to unsheath thy sword!”
Meantime Milosh reached the tent in which sat the champion of the Venetian king. Before the entrance he had stuck his lance deep into the ground, and to this he had tethered his grey steed. Milosh addressed the hector thus: “Rise up! thou little white Venetian gentleman, we will fight together for the honour of our masters!” But the hector answered angrily: “Away with thee, thou ugly black Bulgar! My sword is not for such as thee! I would not soil my steel on such a ragged fellow!”
This remark made Milosh very angry, and he exclaimed: “Rise up, haughty Venetian! Thou hast indeed richer attire; I shall take it from thee, and then who will have the finer feathers?”
At this the hector sprang to his feet and mounted his grey charger, which he caused to prance and curvet across the field. Milosh stood quietly looking on until suddenly the Venetian fiercely hurled his lance straight to the breast of Milosh. The wary Serbian received it on his golden-headed club and jerked the weapon over his head, breaking it into three pieces as he did so. This sleight-of-hand alarmed the hector and he exclaimed: “Wait a minute, thou ugly black Bulgar! My lance was faulty, wait till I get a better one!” With this he put spurs to his steed, but Milosh shouted after him: “Stop, thou white Venetian! Thou shalt not escape me!” And with this he spurred his Koulash after the cowardly hector and pursued close to the gates of Ledyen. Alas for the fugitive, the gates were closed! For a moment the hector paused irresolute and this moment was his last. Milosh let loose his unerring lance; it whistled though the morning air and the hector was transfixed to the gate. Then Milosh alighted from his steed, struck off the Venetian’s head and threw it in Koulash’s nose-bag. Next he caught the grey steed and rode with him to the tsar. “Here, O mighty tsar,” said he, “is the head of the king’s hector!”
Doushan was overjoyed at his prowess and gave him much gold. “Go, my son,” said he, kindly, “drink some good wine, and presently I shall make thee noble!”