Perhaps, thus, for a passing moment, he made up his mind to kill her. Heretofore, he had not used his sword, had only defended himself with his metal-bossed arm shield.
Now he was about to draw …
But, by this time. Hector's weapon was approaching him in dancing, narrowing circles, while the princess, regaining her flagging strength, was about to thrust in and under his skillfully handled shield. He heard the ominous crackle of steel from both sides, both blades flickered toward his heart like messengers of death, the hilt of his own sword, when he tried to draw, caught in the folds of his voluminous waist shawl; and so, suddenly, but serenely, he did what most Asiatics would have done under the circumstances.
Fight the inevitable?
And what price was there in that, what pride, what logic? Was there price and pride and logic in one's own bleeding, mutilated corpse? Was there not far greater price and pride and logic in one's living body, though it be humbled through the stress of circumstance—of force majeure?
Why—outside, on the banks of the Ghulan River, the koil-birds were singing their throaty song of life and love; the little, green ceratrophys toads were sounding their basso notes; the very trees were alive with the breeze of spring, and the sky was blue and endless … Life, all around him!
Why then choose death?
Not he!
And so, skillfully, suddenly, just as the blades met
