Still struggling, though with little hope, the girl saw the defeat of her natural champion with sympathetic anguish.  Though he had not spied the student, she had regarded him with no faint opinion of his manliness for—­repelling the kind of proud self-reliance of her race to have no recourse to strangers during persecution—­she lifted her voice with a confidence which startled her rude adorer.

“Help! help from this ruffian-gentleman!”

“Silence, you fool,” rejoined Sendlingen.  “I tell you, the coast is clear—­for I have arranged all that.  It is simple strategy to secure one’s flanks—­”

“Help!” repeated the songstress, redoubling her efforts—­not to escape, which was out of the question, but to shield her mouth from contact with the red moustaches, hovering over it like the wings of a bloodstained bird of rapine.

As this repetition of the appeal, steps clattered on the bridge, and the officer lifted his head.  He may have expected Baboushka or one of her fraternity, and the tall, slender student, who had flung off his cloak to run more swiftly, gave him a surprise.  The agile and intelligent girl took the opportunity with commendable speed, and glided out of the major’s relaxing grasp like a wasp from under the spider’s claws.  She retreated as far as where her father tried to stand erect, and helping him up, led him prudently down the bridge slope so that they might continue their flight.  It would have been the basest ingratitude to depart without seeing the result of the interference, and the two lingered, though it would have been wiser to let the two Christians bite and tear each other without witnesses of another creed, and with the witness of none.

It was a free spectacle, but, if it had cost their week’s salary at the casino, it would have been worth the money.

As the major had empty hands after the loss of his prize, the student had the quixotic delicacy to make the offer in dumbshow to lay aside his cane and undertake to chastise the insulter of womanhood with the naked fist.  But this is a weapon almost unknown in the sword-bearing class which Von Sendlingen adorned, and, infuriated by the civilian intervening at the culmination of his daring plan, to say nothing of the annoying thought that his failure would be no secret from the old hag, his accomplice, looking on at the extremity of the bridge, he yielded to the worst devil in his heart.  He inclined to the most high-handed and hectoring measure.  Whipping out his sabre with a rapid gesture, and merely muttering a discourteous and grudging:  “Be on your guard!” he dealt a cut at the student which threatened to cleave him in two.

The other was on the alert; he had suspected one capable of such an outrage, likewise capable of worse, and he parried the coward’s blow so dexterously with his cane that it was the soldier who was thrown off his balance.  A second blow, with the tremendous sweep of the stick held at arm’s length, tested the metal of the blade to its utmost, and, as the wielder’s hand was thoroughly palsied, drove it out of the opening fingers, and all heard it splash in the black and pestiferous waters under the bridge.