Meantime Milosh reached the tent in which sat the champion of the Venetian king. Before the entrance he had stuck his lance deep into the ground, and to this he had tethered his grey steed. Milosh addressed the hector thus: "Rise up! thou little white Venetian gentleman, we will fight together for the honour of our masters!" But the hector answered angrily: "Away with thee, thou ugly black Bulgar! My sword is not for such as thee! I would not soil my steel on such a ragged fellow!"
This remark made Milosh very angry, and he exclaimed: "Rise up, haughty Venetian! Thou hast indeed richer attire; I shall take it from thee, and then who will have the finer feathers?"
At this the hector sprang to his feet and mounted his grey charger, which he caused to prance and curvet across the field. Milosh stood quietly looking on until suddenly the Venetian fiercely hurled his lance straight to the breast of Milosh. The wary Serbian received it on his golden-headed club and jerked the weapon over his head, breaking it into three pieces as he did so. This sleight-of-hand alarmed the hector and he exclaimed: "Wait a minute, thou ugly black Bulgar! My lance was faulty, wait till I get a better one!" With this he put spurs to his steed, but Milosh shouted after him: "Stop, thou white Venetian! Thou shalt not escape me!" And with this he spurred his Koulash after the cowardly hector and pursued close to the gates of Ledyen. Alas for the fugitive, the gates were closed! For a moment the hector paused irresolute and this moment was his last. Milosh let loose his unerring lance; it whistled though the morning air and the hector was transfixed to the gate. Then Milosh alighted from his steed, struck off the Venetian's head and threw it in Koulash's nose-bag. Next he caught the grey steed and rode with him to the tsar. "Here, O mighty tsar," said he, "is the head of the king's hector!"
Doushan was overjoyed at his prowess and gave him much gold. "Go, my son," said he, kindly, "drink some good wine, and presently I shall make thee noble!"
Milosh had hardly seated himself at his wine when a page again called loudly from the royal castle: "Behold, O Serbian tsar! In the meadow below thou mayest see three fiery horses saddled, on the back of each there is fastened a flaming sword with point upward. If thou wouldst go in peace from here taking with thee the king's daughter, thou must thyself or by deputy leap over these flaming swords."