This enraged Marko. "Hold out thy hand, Novak, that I may pay thee for my sword!" No sooner had the man stretched forth his right arm, than Marko by a swift stroke cut it off from the shoulder. "Now, O Novak, from this day thou shalt not make either a better or a worse sword than mine! And take these hundred ducats as thy reward!"
Then Marko mounted his Sharatz and rode off to the sea, seeking and inquiring all the way for Moussa. One morning early he rode up the defile Katchanik, when suddenly he saw Moussa Kessedjiya, calmly seated on his black steed with his legs crossed, throwing his mace to the clouds and catching it again in his right hand. When the two knights met, Marko said to Moussa: "Knightly Moussa, move aside and leave the path free for my Sharatz to pass! Move aside or bow before me!"
To this Moussa answered: "Pass on quietly, Marko, do not start a quarrel. Better still, let us dismount and take refreshment together. I shall never move aside to make way for thee. I know well that thou wert born of a queen in a palace, and wert laid upon silken cushions. Doubtless thy mother wrapped thee in pure silk, and fastened the silk with golden thread, and gave thee honey and sugar; my mother was a poor, wild Albanian, and I was born on the cold rocks near the sheep she was tending, and she wrapped me in a rough, black cloth, tying it on to me with bramble twigs; she fed me on oatmeal--but above all things she always made me swear that I should never move aside for anybody."
Hearing this, Marko of Prilip aimed his lance at Moussa's breast, but the fierce Albanian received it on his warrior-mace, and it glanced off, whizzing high above his head. Then Moussa threw his own lance, aiming at Marko's breast, but the princely hero received it on his club and it broke in three. They next unsheathed their swords and attacked each other at close quarters. Marko gave a great stroke, but Moussa interposed his mace and the sword was shattered. Instantly Moussa raised his own sword to strike his adversary, but Marko, in the like manner, received it upon his club and the weapon snapped in two near its hilt. Then they began labouring each other with their maces until these broke too. They next dismounted and seized each other fiercely. The famous heroes were equally matched for once, the knightly Moussa against the princely Marko. Moussa could neither throw Marko down, nor could Marko overcome Moussa. For a whole summer's morning did they wrestle together. At about noon, white foam rose on Moussa's lips, and Marko's lips were covered with blood and foam. Then Moussa exclaimed: "Do throw me down, O Marko! or, if you cannot do it, let me throw you down!" Marko did all he could, but his attempts were vain. Seeing this, Moussa exerted his last remnants of strength and, lifting Marko from the ground, he threw him on to the grass and pressed his knees on his breast.