"Our champion has degenerated since the day he surprised us in the _salle d'armes_," murmured the premier in alarm. "Bah! my good Radzivil," returned Zabern confidently, "cannot you see that he is letting the duke exhaust himself? Bora is rash in thus pouring out his strength like water. This is too violent to last long. Ah! said I not so? First blood to us!" The duke had failed to preserve his guard, and as a result Paul's weapon had penetrated his side to the depth of a quarter of an inch, a feat performed with such quickness that though all were watching, few perceived it. "The duke is wounded." "He is not." Doubt vanished with the appearance on Bora's white shirt of a small red disk that began slowly to expand. Zabern smiled grimly at the bewilderment of the duke, whose air resembled that of a bull in the Spanish arena when first pierced by the dart of the banderillero--the air of amazement as to how the thing could have happened, mingled with incredulity that any one should have ventured to play such a trick upon him. This was the first wound ever received by him in his character as duellist, and the blow thus given to his prestige stung the duke far more than the mere physical pain caused by the stab. Its occurrence, however, at this stage was timely, for it served to check his fiery conceit and to teach him caution; it behoved him to guard as well as to assail. Paul's vigilance in detecting an error on his adversary's part raised the spirit of the Poles to a high degree, while the feeling of the Muscovites underwent a corresponding depression. "Good for the Englishman," cried a Pole. "He is the duke's match," exclaimed a second. The combat being now waged with more caution on the part of the duke, there ensued a really brilliant display of swordsmanship, which, interesting to the civilians, was far more so to the military officers present, from whom came subdued murmurs of admiration. "Humph!" said Zabern, conscious that the duke was now in his best form. "The great Napoleon, with whom I once dined, made remark to me, 'Scratch a Russ, and you will find a Tartar.' In the present instance, however, the scratch seems to have made our Russ more cool." The Czar, who had overheard these words, so far permitted his curiosity to overcome his dislike of Zabern as to ask coldly,-- "Where did you dine with Napoleon?" "Beneath the roof of the Kremlin, sire," replied Zabern, with an ironical salute. The emperor repressed his wrath, and turned again to view the strife. Every movement of the blades was watched in fear and trembling by the Polish spectators, who felt that it was a fight betwixt liberty and despotism; a mortal thrust on the part of the duke would leave them but a shadow of that freedom which they had enjoyed under the _régime_ of the princess.