Neither of the combatants had ever used such a weapon as a Persian sabre for a serious combat; but the far-travelled pupil of Sir Huguenin had before exercised himself in this, as well as in every other mode of warfare. In a few moments the crooked falchion fitted his hand as well as his own sword would have done; and while the count in his confusion often struck with the blunt side of the sabre, Sir Folko never failed to use the sharp edge, the blade being fashioned like that of a sickle, and in a short space Vinciguerra had received three deep wounds in the breast and arm, so that he fell powerless to the ground.--“There you have performed a notable and most prudent exploit!” said Theobaldo, who now again stood near them; “take yourself out of the way, however, as quickly as you can, and I shall remove the wounded man.”--Thereupon, with a dexterous movement, he lifted the unfortunate count on his shoulders, and vanished with his burden into one of the neighbouring garden-houses. While the chevalier still stood irresolute what he should now do, and scarcely attending to the merchant’s last words, the advice which the latter had given him became all at once but too clearly intelligible.--“Do I see rightly?--Was there ever such insolence known?” cried a well-known voice behind him. It was the Prince Mutza, who, with a numerous train of attendants, now stopped his horse, lost in surprise, and gazed steadfastly on Sir Folko’s features. The latter wished to have reassumed his old character of a merchant; but now, when it was too late, he perceived what, in the heat of the combat, had wholly escaped his attention. One of Vinciguerra’s blows with the blunt side of the sabre had struck off the turban from his head; his false beard had fallen along with it; and now, with his luxuriant brown hair curling round his handsome features, the Knight of Montfaucon stood there with the bloody sabre in his hand: for Mutza to have past him by would have been impossible. Much sooner than the prince expected, however, did the chevalier recover from the confusion of that moment. He took an iron glove from the armour with which the mule was loaded, and, throwing it in Mutza’s face, he called out,--“I challenge thee, caitiff as thou art, to single combat, for life and death;--I give thee the choice of whatsoever weapons thou wilt use; and by all this I shew to thee far more condescension than thou deservest; for not only hast thou, like a base slave, broken thy parole of honour, granted to a true knight, but, like a common robber, hast forced away from their home two noble damsels, by whom, instead of being treated as a prisoner, thou wert entertained as a guest.”--At these words a deadly paleness overspread Mutza’s features. Was this the effect of anger, or did some worse feelings now work in his bosom? So much at least is certain, that, even by one step out of the straight-forward path of virtue, even