A wild-looking man, spotted with blood, diminutive and black, his whole face almost overgrown with bristly hair, said grinning: "The old grey-headed knave is certainly a sorcerer, for when I had already killed several of the idolaters, and that he still continued to stand quietly there, and I was vexed that none of my comrades had ever aimed at him, in my fury I advanced to hew him down; already I raised my arm, then the spectre looked quite quietly at me, and his old thin lips smiled at it, almost as if he would have wept, but I tell you, from his large blue eyes such a spell shot through my eyes into my heart, that terrified I let fall my arm and was unable to do any thing to the rascal. A long time after, wishing to rest myself a little, I perceived him still in his black garments like a dark cloud between the combatants, wandering through flame and smoke and over the slain, perfectly collected and as if no one could do him harm. I think he is gone
