He made no attempt to assail Paul. Why should he? He could do no more than he had done. He had tried again and again to reach his adversary, and with graceful ease Paul had parried each cut and tierce. He could escape death only by some negligence on the part of his opponent, but that opponent was too keen to be caught erring. Little by little Bora was forced backwards, till at last further retreat was rendered impossible by the cord attached to his ankle; yet farther back he must go if he must avoid that sabre-point, which, swift and deadly as the tongue of a serpent, glittered continually within an inch of his face and breast. His strength was ebbing fast; his arm had grown completely wearied by the constant parrying; he longed to throw away his weapon and cry for mercy; but for the restraining cord he would have cast himself at the feet of the Czar to implore his intervention. The despair pictured on his face produced a painful feeling among the more sensitive portion of the spectators. With vision continually blurred by the great drops of sweat that hung from his eyebrows, the duke struggled on, till at last came the end. Tempted from his defensive Bora made a sudden thrust, and his sabre-point entered a tiny orifice in the ornamental work that formed the cross-guard of Paul's sword. Lunging with wild vehemence, Bora was unable to check his impetus, and the result was that the blade of his weapon instantaneously curved upwards with such force as to snap in two, while at the same moment Paul's sabre, darting forward horizontally, entered the duke's breast, and passed out under his left shoulder. Bora's arms flew aloft with a convulsive jerk; the fragment of his blade dropped with a ringing sound upon the pavement; he gave a strange gasping sigh, and then his body slid from Paul's blade and lay on the floor in a huddled heap. "Now, I call that a very pretty fight," remarked Zabern. A long shout of triumph arose from the Poles, followed a few seconds later by a tremendous roaring from the populace outside, as the white standard flew up the flagstaff, announcing the victory of the princess's champion. CHAPTER XX ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL As the Czar beheld his champion lying dead, a wave of anger swept over him, suppressed immediately by his stern fortitude. "The word of the Czar is sacred," he cried, rising from his seat and addressing the assembly. "Barbara Lilieska is Princess of Czernova. Let the coronation proceed." Paul, released from the cord that had confined him to the place of combat, here turned and confronted the emperor. "Your Majesty," he remarked, with a somewhat cold expression, "ere claiming to exercise suzerainty in Czernova, will do well to await the arrival of your Foreign Minister now on his way hither." The Czar stared haughtily at Paul, having no idea whatever of his meaning, while Zabern, equally mystified, murmured,-- "In the name of the saints, explain your saying."