Iskander, with the same ease as if he were plucking
the ripe fruit from a tree, took up a ponderous stone, and hurled it
with fatal precision at his adventurous enemy. The rider shrieked and
fell, and rose no more: the mare, relieved from her burthen, exerted
all her failing energies, and succeeded in gaining the opposite bank.
There, rolling herself in the welcome pasture, and neighing with a note
of triumph, she revelled in her hard escape.
"Cut down the Giaour!" exclaimed one of the horsemen, and he dashed at
the bridge. His fragile blade shivered into a thousand pieces as it
crossed the scimitar of Iskander, and in a moment his bleeding head
fell over the parapet.
Instantly the whole band, each emulous of revenging his comrades,
rushed without thought at Iskander, and endeavoured to overpower him by
their irresistible charge. His scimitar flashed like lightning. The
two foremost of his enemies fell, but the impulse of the numbers
prevailed, and each instant, although dealing destruction with every
blow, he felt himself losing ground.
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