Boabdul wielded his curving scimitar, which was weighted at its point, and held a tiny target upon his arm in easy grace, while Menon was armed with a shield of bronze and a heavy two-edged sword, the gifts of Memetis, an Egyptian prince held hostage at the court of Ninus.
For a moment the two stood motionless, each striving to note a weakness in the other's guard, each ready for thrust or parry should an opening chance; then the Arab crouched and began to move in circles round and round. Menon, making a pivot of his heel, turned slowly with his hawk-like adversary, presenting a steady front to every point of menace or attack, and daring the Arab with his smiling eyes. Of a sudden Boabdul feinted with an under-thrust, recovered, and lashed out wickedly at Menon's head; yet the scimitar only rasped along the edge of a waiting sword, and the Arab bounded back beyond the danger line. Again and again he sought an opening, and was met by a steady, cool defense, while the watching Bedouins and Assyrian men-at-arms cheered lustily for their champions.
Stung by repeated failure, Boabdul's blood ran hot within his veins, and the battle waxed in fierceness and in speed. As the leopard springs, so the Arab darted in and out, his scimitar a wheel of light, a weapon in every spoke, that now rang sharply on a shield of bronze or gritted against a sword; the while Prince Menon fixed his gaze on the Arab's eyes and waited a whisper from his gods.
In circles they stamped the earth, amid the din of hoarse, wild cries of men who lusted for a sight of blood; and then a shout went up, for a crimson stream ran trickling down the Assyrian's thigh. The crafty Boabdul, too, had seen, and he bounded to a fresh attack, but Menon caught the blow on his brazen shield and turned the stroke aside; then swiftly, and with all his strength he smote the foeman's target with the flat of his heavy sword. His gods had whispered, for the Arab's arm hung numbed and useless at his side.
And now it was Menon's turn to forsake the waiting game and push his foeman to the wall. The fresher of the two, because of his calm defense, he pressed upon the Prince without a feather-weight of mercy, nor gave him pause. In vain Boabdul fought with all his skill to regain an aggressor's vantage ground, yet could not, for his blade was now his shield, while Menon warded blows with either arm. Still the battle was not yet won. The Arab strove by a score of cunning tricks to lure his enemy into faulty guard or a weakness of attack. He even sought with taunts and mockery to tilt the even temper of his foe; but Menon pressed him closer still and laughed--which troubled Boabdul grievously. Once the wily Arab flung himself upon the earth and slashed at the other's legs, but Menon leaped and the stroke passed harmlessly beneath, while the Prince regained his feet and moved backward on the run.