To Banfi the world seemed all at once to be turning round and round. His soul had received three wounds, which quite divested him of humanity. "Thou accursed devil," he roared, gnashing his teeth, seized his csakany by the middle with both hands, sprang closer to Ali, and whirled his weapon with lightning-like rapidity over his head, so that it flew round and round in his hands like the sail of a windmill, crashing down now with its axe-head, now with its bullet-shaped nether end on his antagonist's shield, and attacking and defending himself at the same time. Ali Pasha, confused at this altogether novel mode of attack, would have retired; but the two war-horses, furiously biting each other about the head and neck, were now taking part in the contest of their masters, and could not be parted. The Spahis, seeing their leader waver, threw themselves between the combatants and drove from Banfi's side his escort of hussars. The Baron now perceiving that all his people had fled to the churchyard, directed one last swift stroke at Ali's shield, which, to judge from Ali's agonized howl, penetrated it at the very spot where fitted on to the arm. Banfi had no time for a third encounter, as he was now completely surrounded. At that moment a well-known flourish of trumpets resounded in the rear of the combatants, and a fresh and general battle-cry mingled with the din-- "God and St. Michael." George Veer had arrived with the banderia. "God and St. Michael!" thundered the leader of the nobility, conspicuous among them all in his silver coat of mail with the bearskin thrown over his shoulders; and with his toothed battle-axe he hewed his way through the ranks of the astonished Turks. The attack was skilfully conducted; the mounted nobility pressed on from all sides, simultaneously bringing the Turkish host everywhere into confusion, so that one wing could not assist the other, and the outermost ranks were always borne down by superior numbers. Ali Pasha had received a bad wound in the arm from Banfi's last blow, which had daunted his courage, so he stuck his spurs into his horse's sides and gave the signal for retreat. The Turkish host was driven head and heels out of the town, and its leaders endeavoured to retreat among the Gyalyui Alps, hoping to rally it again in the narrow defiles. Outside the town the battle, fast becoming a rout, still raged furiously. The Hungarians scattered about the burning hayricks, and were so intermingled in the darkness of the night with their opponents that they could only distinguish one another by their battle-cries. The harassed Turkish host, which in the darkness and confusion at one time took refuge among the enemy, and at another cut down their own comrades, tried to imitate the battle-cry of the Hungarians, but this only made the mischief greater; for as they could not pronounce the words "Angel Michael," but always cried "Anchal Michel," they exposed themselves more completely to the Hungarians.