Now the duel was to be with swords; these had been selected; and each Arab was to come against Rire-pour-tout singly, in succession.

Our drums rolled the pas de charge, and their cymbals clashed; they shouted 'Fantasia!' and the first Arab rode at him.

Rire-pour-tout sat like a rock, and lunge went his steel through the Bedouin's lung, before you could cry hola!--a death-stroke, of course; Rire-pour-tout always killed: that was his perfect science.

Another and another and another came, just as fast as the blood flowed.

You know what the Arabs are--vous autres?
How they wheel and swerve and fight flying, and pick up their saber from the ground, while their horse is galloping ventre a terre, and pierce you here and pierce you there, and circle round you like so many hawks?
You know how they fought Rire-pour-tout then, one after another, more like devils than men.