THE CORONATION DUEL
Those who had come to the cathedral in the expectation of witnessing
an interesting ceremony were beginning to find that the reality far
surpassed the anticipation.
A series of dramatic episodes had occurred in quick succession, but
the climax of all was now reached when it became known that the throne
of Czernova was to be put to the hazard of a duel, and a duel that was
to ensue immediately within the walls of the cathedral itself, an
arrangement due to the initiative of Zabern; for, as according to the
statute the combat must take place that same day, he had proposed that
it should be fought at once upon the open pavement fronting the choir.
"A duel within a cathedral!" exclaimed Radzivil in amazement.
"Why not?" asked Zabern coolly.
"This is a consecrated place. The wilful shedding of blood here is
forbidden by the Church."
"Well, let's take the opinion of the Church as expressed in the person
of Faustus."
Now, sad to relate, that mitred abbot dearly loved to witness a good
fight, for he had been a soldier ere adopting the monastic profession,
and the old Adam was still strong within him.
"This cathedral is holy ground," he began.
"Presumably so," replied Zabern.
"And to maintain the princess's throne and the Latin faith is a holy
deed."
"Without doubt."
"Then let the holy deed take place on holy ground."
"My view of the matter."
"But if the shedding of blood should profane a church--"
"As the timid allege."
"Then is the place already profaned by the blood of Orloff."
"True."
"Therefore this being now common ground the duel can take place
without occasion of profanation."
"Faustus, thou reasonest well. Gentlemen, we have heard the voice of
the Church. _Fiat voluntas ecclesiæ._ Let the combat take place here,
and now."
"Good!" commented Paul, who had listened in silence to this dialogue.
"It cannot come too soon."
A remark echoed by the ferocious Bora, confident in his ability to
overcome the other.
Paul now found his hands grasped by those of admiring ministers, all
of whom were anxious that he should forget how near they had come to
banishing him by public edict.
In the midst of their congratulations Paul was approached by a
lady-in-waiting, who brought word that the princess desired to speak
with him ere the duel should begin.
"Go to your dalliance," sneered Bora, who had overheard the message.
"It will be your last."
"If your grace will take counsel of an enemy," replied Paul, "you will
seek the ministration of a priest, for you never needed it more."
There was something in Paul's quiet and confident manner, something
far removed from boasting, that sent a momentary uneasiness to the
hearts of both Bora and of his imperial patron, the Czar.
Paul followed his conductress to the sacristy, where he found Barbara
attended by her ladies, who had divested her of her heavy coronation
robes. The pure white of her silk dress was not whiter than her face
at that moment.
At a sign from the princess the attendants withdrew, leaving her alone
with Paul.
"What a pity," murmured one, "if so handsome a hero should die!"
Barbara rose to her feet, but so great was her emotion that she would
have fallen, had not Paul caught her in his arms, where she reclined,
clinging convulsively to him.
"Oh! Paul, Paul," she murmured, and for a long time she could do no
more than repeat his name.
The sweetness and the pain at her heart! Was this a meeting or a
parting? Her throne, her power, her wealth, her triumphs in the
diplomacy and the Diet were all as nothing in comparison with her love
of Paul. He was her dearest possession, and yet--and yet--this clasp
of his arms might be the last! Within an hour his corpse might be
carried out of the cathedral, and the voice of the Czar would proclaim
her downfall, and the accession of Bora. And what would life be
without Paul?
"Do not weep, Barbara," he cried, tenderly stroking her dark hair.
"This day shall prove the brightest of your life."
But Barbara failed to see how this could be. To her it would ever
remain as the most wretched, for even if she should triumph over Czar
and duke, that would not remove the reproach of illegitimacy publicly
cast in her teeth. She shivered at the recollection. Of all the
incidents which had happened that day, this--the imputed stain on her
birth--had most wounded her pride. Would she ever be able to disprove
the charge? But it was not the time to be thinking of this now.
"Oh! Paul," she murmured, "it is selfish, it is wrong of me to hazard
your life in this barbarous fashion."
"It is too late to plead now," he answered gravely. "I have publicly
accepted the honor--for an honor it is--of acting as the princess's
champion, and not even Barbara herself shall dissuade me to withdraw."
"But are you certain, quite certain, that you will be victorious?"
"Try me," said Paul grimly.
"How can I let you do this?" she cried in an outburst of anguish. "I
will resign my crown. We will go away together to some other land
where happiness may be found. Say 'yes' to this. Oh, Paul,
don't--_don't_ fight. If you should fall--"
"No fear of that, since your throne depends upon the issue."
"My throne!" repeated Barbara bitterly. "What pleasure can it give me
now? The Czar has learned that our Charter is no more. He claims
Czernova as part of his empire. If I should continue to rule I must
rule merely as his vassal. Consider the humiliations to which I shall
be subjected. Is it worth while risking your life in order to preserve
for me a gilded mockery of power?"
How could Paul smile at the prospect presented by her words? Yet he
did, pleasantly and tenderly.
"Sweet princess!" he said, "for princess you are, and princess you
shall remain, take courage." He turned her beautiful face upward to
his own, and gazed into the depth of her dark eyes, on whose silken
lashes the tear-drops glittered. "During my absence I have worked for
the good of Czernova. I have splendid tidings for you. Fear no more
the machinations of Russia. From this day forth you are firmly seated
upon the throne."
The sudden and unaccountable joy that filled Barbara's heart at that
moment almost effaced the thought of the coming duel.
"Oh, Paul, what--what do you mean?"
"That I have accomplished my mission. But ere explaining let me first
dispose of the duke; otherwise when the great news which is now on
its way reaches Slavowitz, he may seek to escape in the train of the
Czar, which must not be, for Trevisa's death calls for atonement."
Though full of wonder, Barbara succeeded in repressing her curiosity,
and said,--
"Paul, you do not wish me to be a witness of this duel? I mean," she
added timidly, "if you think that--that--"
"That I shall fight with better success if you are looking on? No,
Barbara, it is no sight for your gentle eyes. Remain here till it is
over. And do not fear for me," he continued, kissing her tearful face,
"I am more than a match for the duke. From boyhood upward to excel in
sword-play has been my ambition. Rarely have I let a day pass without
exercise. I can see now that Providence has been training my arm for
this very event."
His words inspired Barbara with a momentary confidence.
"You will succeed, Paul. Heaven will help you, for you fight in a
righteous cause. Oh, are you going? So soon? Why, we have but just
met. Not yet--not yet. A minute longer--one more kiss--lest--lest--it
should be--the last--O Paul--don't go--no--no--"
He kissed her tenderly, gently removed her clinging arms, and quitted
the sacristy.
The Duke of Bora, who was sitting beside his great kinsman, the Czar,
scowled as Paul made his appearance in the choir. The dullest
imagination could picture the tender interview that had taken place in
the sacristy. All knew that Paul had come to the combat with Barbara's
kiss dewy on his lips.
"But for yon fellow," muttered Bora, "I might now be the consort of
the princess."
"The fair lady loves power," replied the emperor. "She may yet consent
when she sees the crown on your brow. See, the herald summons you. Now,
Bora, play the man, and you are prince by the law of Czernova itself.
All Europe will be unable to dispute the legality of your title."
The two duellists did not immediately take to the sword and engage.
The coronation-rubric prescribed certain formalities--relics of a
mediæval usage--in connection with the championing of the sovereign;
and these a herald, dressed in the quaint antique costume of his
office, proceeded to carry out.
"Let the champions come forward."
Paul, with a smile serene and high, stepped to the appointed place,
namely, the space fronting the choir. Sand had been sprinkled upon the
pavement to absorb the blood that might be shed, and to prevent the
combatants' feet from slipping.
Bora with a scowling brow faced his opponent.
"Do you, Paul Cressingham Woodville, affirm that she who calls herself
Barbara Lilieska is the true and lawful ruler of this principality of
Czernova?"
"I do."
"And do you, John Lilieski, affirm that you yourself are the true and
lawful ruler of this principality of Czernova?"
"I do."
"And to prove your respective contentions, are you each willing to
submit to the ordeal of battle?"
The champions signified their assent.
The herald then proceeded to explain the conditions that were to
regulate the combat. Swords of a certain length were to be the weapons
used. From beginning to end the duel was to be continuous without any
interval for rest or refreshment. Each was to fight till his opponent
should be destroyed, for quarter was neither to be given nor accepted,
and though the life-blood were being drained from the combatants the
wounds were not to be stanched.
By a solemn oath repeated after the herald, each champion bound
himself to observe these regulations. Hence it was certain that one,
possibly both, would not leave the cathedral alive, a fact which
imparted a terrible interest to the coming combat.
"No quarter! that's a good rule," remarked Zabern to Katina, who sat
beside him. "The craven duke would be begging for his life, and we
want no more Boras in Czernova."
"The champions will now take their position for the combat," cried the
herald.
The duellist when hard pressed is apt to give way before his opponent.
In the present case, however, advance or retreat, save within very
narrow limits, was rendered impossible.
Fixed in the stone flooring was a ring of brass designed for raising a
slab that covered a stairway leading to a crypt below. The right ankle
of each combatant was attached to this same ring by a strong cord six
feet in length, thus confining their movements within a circle of four
yards in diameter.
These preparations raised the interest of the spectators to a high
pitch. A dreadful sensation thrilled the ladies present as they
watched the champions during the process of cording; the men, more
cool and critical, strove to predict the victor from the physique
presented by each of the opponents.
Judged thus, the advantage seemed to be on the side of the duke, whose
frame was powerful and massive; Paul was not equal in stature to his
antagonist, was of more slender build, and any superiority derivable
from his greater activity was somewhat nullified by the restraining
cord.
The circumstances attending this combat contributed to render it
unique in the annals of Czernovese duelling.
The one champion, Bora, stimulated by the presence of his imperial
patron, the mighty Czar, fought to gain a crown; the other, Paul, for
the hand of a fair princess. There was a coloring of romance about the
affair strongly suggestive of the days of chivalry, and this was
enhanced by the quaint character of the ritual employed.
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.
The news of the coming duel had been announced to the populace
without, and their cries of excitement contrasted strangely with the
deadly stillness that reigned within the interior of the fane.
Upon that part of the cathedral roof that overlooked the square, a
group of soldiers could be seen standing about a flag-staff, at the
foot of which were two banners, one white, the other black. The eyes
of all the people below were set upon this flag-staff, when it became
known that the hoisting of the white standard would signify the
triumph of the princess's champion, and the black standard his defeat.
The time for the great contest had now come, and the herald stepped
backward a few paces.
"May Heaven defend the right! In the name of God--fight!"
As the blades clashed together the spectators drew a deep breath. The
time occupied by the preliminaries, though in reality very brief, had
seemed so long that the beginning of the duel came as an actual
relief.
A shiver of expectancy ran around the cathedral. Five thousand pairs
of eyes were riveted upon the choir, and upon naught else. The
loveliest lady present might have sighed in vain for a single glance.
Abbot Faustus had sunk upon his knees by the altar, and was now
telling his beads, but though his spiritual eyes might be directed
towards heaven, his earthly vision was certainly fixed upon the two
combatants, as Katina observed to Zabern.
"Well, he can cite Moses as a precedent," remarked the marshal, as he
sat down to watch the fray. Loving a good fight, Zabern viewed the
present spectacle with a real sense of enjoyment, untroubled by any
doubt as to the result.
The Czar, with his strong liking for everything military, was likewise
in his element. He sat, bent forward, resting the point of his sabre
upon the pavement, and his hands upon the hilt, prepared to view the
display of swordsmanship with the critical eye of a _maître d'armes_,
as confident in the triumph of Bora as Zabern was in that of Paul.
The Duke of Bora, burning to distinguish himself in the presence of
the Czar, and apparently desirous of terminating the combat in the
shortest space of time possible, made so furious an attack upon Paul
that the latter could do no more than remain on the defensive. So
weighty was the descent of Bora's blade that Paul's arm tingled at
each shock; so swift his tierce that his sabre-point was often swept
aside when within an inch only of Paul's breast. In truth the eye
could scarcely follow the movement of the blades, which in their
rapidity resembled flashes of light, rather than pieces of steel
wielded by human hands.
The duke pressed his adversary yet harder, compelling him to recede
inch by inch to the end of his tether, a retrogression which, added to
the fact that Paul did not return the cut and thrust of his opponent,
occasioned grave misgiving in the minds of the Polish spectators.
"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.
Many of the ladies present, unable to endure the sight, averted their
eyes, and then, impelled by a dreadful curiosity, turned to gaze
again. Some looked on with handkerchiefs pressed to their mouths to
check the screams which might have disconcerted the combatants.
Intense emotion caused a few to swoon away.
The tide seemed to be turning in favor of Paul. He began to press the
duke, whose strength was beginning to fail. Mighty in a first onset,
he lacked the steady endurance of his adversary. Suddenly, while
bending sideways to avoid a thrust which he had failed to parry, Bora
lost his balance and fell. In falling, his sword flew from his hand.
And there he was, resting upon one knee, defenceless, at the mercy of
his opponent.
The spirit of chivalry restrained Paul from giving the fatal stroke.
"I cannot slay an unarmed man," he said.
"What folly is this?" cried Zabern, starting up in wrath. "Did he
spare Trevisa? Would he spare you if you were now in his place? This
is no time for generosity or mercy. The princess's throne is at stake.
Strike and spare not."
Bora neither moved nor spoke, awaiting his end in trembling terror.
Paul's refusal to strike evoked the long-suppressed feelings of the
Poles.
"Kill! kill!"
The lofty arches rang with excited cries. Even tender ladies, carried
away by the heat of the moment, added their voices to those of the
men. Paul, looking around upon the assembly, saw nothing but a forest
of waving hands, and a multitude of fierce-gleaming eyes urging him to
the bloody work.
"No quarter can be granted," said the herald. "You have each sworn an
oath to slay, or be slain."
But inasmuch as Paul was not to be moved from his purpose, there was
no other course left than to permit the duke to resume the combat.
"You have given him time to recover himself," grumbled Zabern, as he
sat down again. "It is a violation of the rules."
During his discomfiture, Bora had glanced more than once at the Czar,
as if supplicating his intervention. But the emperor sat impassive as
a statue, ignoring the silent appeal. Relying on the duke's boastful
assurances of victory, Nicholas had assented to the policy of the duel
as a convenient and constitutional way of deposing the princess. It
now seemed that this plan would fail. Then let the duke pay the
penalty merited by his presumption. Woe to the man who deceives the
Czar! Bora's heart sank within him at sight of the emperor's cold
face.
The contest now entered upon its last, its fatal phase.
Equality had disappeared between the two champions; the duel was
virtually over; the result known to all present; it was merely a
question of time.
And the person most conscious of this was the duke himself. His
confident swagger had vanished. He was fighting now, not for glory or
a throne, but for dear life itself.
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.