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The arms, armor, weapons, and horse-furniture of the Moslem were identical with the Italian's; and it being for the challenged party to determine with what the duel should be fought, whether with axe, sword, lance or bow, the son of Isfendiar chose the latter, and made ready while advancing. The Count was not slow in imitating him.
The Count interposed his shield, and shouted in Osmanli: "Out on thee, son of Isfendiar! I am thy antagonist, not my horse. Thou shalt pay for the cowardice." He then narrowed the circle of his movement, and spurring full speed, compelled the Turk to turn on a pivot so reduced it was almost a halt.
Glancing at it, the son of Isfendiar replied: "Take off the cross, and you show me a miniature standard of the Silihdars, my Lord's guard of the Palace." Then looking the Count full in the face, he added: "Under other conditions I should salute you Mirza, Emir of the Hajj." "I have given you my name and title. Answer."
The warlike Bakhtiari tribe form the most important part of the military strength under the nominal command of the Zil-es-Sultan, but he alienated them entirely by his cruel and treacherous murder of their popular chief, Hussein Kuli Khan, in 1882, and the long imprisonment of his son, the equally popular Isfendiar Khan.
A brief combat took place, scarcely more than a blow, and the Turk was disarmed and at mercy. "Son of Isfendiar," said Corti, "the slaying these poor people with only their harvest knives for weapons was murder. Why should I spare your life?" "I was ordered to punish them." "By whom?" "My Lord the Sultan." "Do your master no shame. I know and honor him." "Yesterday they slew our Moslems."
In reply, Mahommed ordered the son of Isfendiar, a relative, to destroy the harvest. The peasants resisted, and not unsuccessfully. In the South, and in the fields near Hissar on the north, there were deaths on both sides. Intelligence of the affair coming to Constantine, he summoned Count Corti. "The long expected has arrived," he said. "Blood has been shed.
Then the son of Isfendiar, recognizing the banderole, and not yet done with chafing over his former defeat, pushed through the throng about Mahommed, and prayed: "O my Lord, suffer me to punish yon braggart." Mahommed replied: "Thou hast felt his hand already, but go I commend thee to thy houris." He settled in his saddle smiling. The danger was not to the Count.
The exposure while taking a second shaft from the quiver behind the right shoulder was dangerously increased. "Beware!" the Count cried again, launching his arrow through the face opening of the hood. The son of Isfendiar might never attain his father's Pachalik. There was not voice left him for a groan. He reeled in his saddle, clutching the empty air, then tumbled to the earth.
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