The Combat in the Snow

"So! It is my friend Dubravnik, is it?" he said, insolently, but in a
tone as cool as though he were greeting me in a ballroom. "You have
killed my horses, and my yemschik; why not do the same for me?"

I hesitated.

To shoot a man like that, was against every impulse of my soul; and yet
he was armed with a weapon as deadly as mine, if once I should get
within reach of its point. I possessed none with which to meet him on
even ground. But, inside the droshka, was unquestionably the
unconscious form of the woman I loved. The occasion was a crisis. There
could be no temporizing. Zara must be rescued.

"Throw down your sword, or I will certainly kill you!" I commanded him,
again.

"Kill," he replied, laconically. There was no other way, and I pulled
the trigger.

There was no report. Durnief did not fall, as the horses, and his
yemschik had done. He stood unharmed, for the cartridge was bad,
or the chamber of my revolver was unloaded. Instantly he understood
that he had me at his mercy, and with a deadly smile upon his face he
leaped forward to run me through.

As he sprang towards me, I hurled the pistol with all my strength
towards him. It struck him squarely in the breast, staggering him, and
forcing him off his guard. Then, before he could recover, I sprang past
the point of his weapon. I seized his sword arm, by the wrist, with my
left hand, and threw my other arm around his body. We were as evenly
matched as though we had trained at weights and measurements for the
combat, and for a moment we struggled madly together, while I exerted
all my strength to bend his wrist backward, so that he would be
compelled to drop his sword.