With a speed accelerated by the most fanatical enthusiasm, the followers of the Mahdi started to meet Yussuf Pasha Hassan. The soldiers of Khartoum were well disciplined veterans, but they lacked enthusiasm. The Mahdi--still without weapon--rode at the head of his people and gave the words of command. Like a cyclone tearing everything before it on a Western prairie, the army of the Mahdi swept on the veterans commanded by Yussuf. The Egyptians made a stubborn resistance at first, but the Mahdists were more like fiends. They seized the soldiers by their hair and deliberately cut their throats. It was a horrible carnage. The Mahdi never struck a blow, never made any effort to defend himself, but was ever in the thickest of the fight. His brow shone as though it were gold. His presence was remarkable. Max fought with desperate valor. At times he stood up in the stirrups to give himself more power in striking a blow. “The Mahdi forever!” he shouted, with every savage blow. Yussuf saw the young fellow and knew that, next to the Mahdi, Max was the most powerful leader. Yussuf would not touch the Mahdi. He was a trifle superstitious. If Mohammed was the Mahdi, steel weapons could not kill him, and Yussuf would not risk an encounter; so he rode through the fighting demons until he reached the side of Max. “The Mahdi forever!” shouted Max, as he suddenly wheeled round and aimed a blow at Yussuf’s head. The veteran officer parried the blow and made a lunge at Max. But the American’s sword swung round with cyclonic speed, and Yussuf’s sword merely struck the air. As the heavy scimiters clashed together sparks of fire flew out, and seemed to keep fiery time to the music of the steel. Yussuf got angry. “Do you also bear a charmed life?” he sneeringly asked, during a pause in the duel. “I am an American,” answered Max, “and fight for liberty.” Again the fight was resumed. Great heaps of dead were to be found in every direction. The horses ridden by Yussuf and Max often had to kick and trample down the dead and dying. It was a fearful sight. Yussuf fought bravely. His left arm had been broken by Max, just below the shoulder, but he would not give in. “Surrender!” “Never!” “Then die!” “I will, but you will go first.” Max was of a different opinion, and he kept swinging round his heavy scimiter with the strength of a giant. Once, when Yussuf parried a blow, the weapon struck the horse’s neck, almost severing the head from the body. Yussuf was now at a disadvantage. Max leaped from the saddle and stood by the Egyptian’s side. “We are equal,” he said. But it was scarcely the truth, for Yussuf had only one arm to fight with. The Egyptian slipped in a pool of blood, and as he did so a sword still grasped by a dead man pierced his side. The brave man could stand no more. “I surrender!” he gasped, but it was not a surrender to Max, but to the Great Creator, for as the man uttered the words the breath left his body.