Each of the Czernovese factions was confident of the success of its champion. The Muscovites boasted of the duke's thirty duels, from all of which he had emerged victorious without taking a wound. The Poles had no such record to show on behalf of their champion; his brilliant feat in the _salle d'armes_ was unknown to them, but they had marked Zabern while Paul was lifting the duke's glove, and they felt that the marshal must have had good cause for the grim joy that had appeared on his face. Moreover, Paul's gallant defence of Tajapore was still fresh in their minds; his triumph over the Czar's policy in the East was an augury of a similar triumph in the West, and contributed to give a piquant zest to the coming duel. At any rate, his cold, flashing eye, compressed lips and resolute mien showed that he was a dangerous opponent. As soon as Paul had removed his coat and vest the herald placed his hand beneath his shirt. "To ascertain whether you wear an under-tunic of mail," he explained in answer to Paul's look of surprise. "Do you deem me a person of so little honor?" "This scrutiny is so enjoined by the rubric," remarked the herald, as he subjected Bora to the same inspection. The weapons next occupied the herald's attention. The duke had come prepared for the contest, and hence his blade was of the length prescribed by the statute; Paul's sword fell short of this by two inches, and though he much preferred to fight with his own weapon, the herald would not permit him to do so. "My blade is of the requisite length," said Zabern, "and I can warrant it tried steel. Take it; you will make it historic. It has already shed the blood of a cardinal; why not that of a duke? There will be a sort of poetic justice in despatching the princess's two enemies with the same weapon." "You seem very confident, marshal," sneered Bora. "Very confident, your grace. You see there's no princess to intervene this time." The herald having tested the length and flexibility of Zabern's sword returned it to the marshal, saying, as he did so,-- "Pierce your skin with the point." Zabern instantly pricked the palm of his hand till the blood flowed, while the duke did the like with his own weapon. The puzzled Paul looked inquiringly at Zabern, who explained that it was an old usage in Czernova, adopted as a precaution against poisoned blades. The two combatants were now bidden to stand as far apart as the cords would permit, and each after kissing his blade held it vertically aloft, repeating after the herald the following oath,-- "Hear, O ye people, that I have this day neither eaten nor drunk aught, nor have I upon my person either charm or amulet, nor have I practised any enchantment or sorcery, whereby the law of Heaven may be abased, or the law of Satan be exalted. So help me God and His saints!" Very absurd and mediæval, no doubt, but being a part of the ancient ritual its enunciation was required from each champion.