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"Of hatred for the contemptible vegetable now must I compose a sonnet..." -- thought Ambrose, but despite his hatred of pumpkins and the grievance over his horse being beaten once again, he gallantly helped his opponent to her feet. -- What a desperate spirit lies hidden in such a fragile body! Behind a comely face, a most dangerous talent.
- I believe I am spent, my lord... - The loser clutched her side, from which, despite the doctors' efforts, something liquid was seeping. - ... Oh, it is merely melted chocolate. What a loss.
-- O Aconian light... -- holding an extremely high opinion of the power of his thrusts and an extremely low one of the chocolate lady's constitution, Ambrose was for a moment even taken in by this jest. -- It seems I remain in your debt, for with my fierce lunge I deprived you of your treat and at the same time damaged your elegant attire.
- It is quite all right, my lord! I have a spare outfit, and I am not lacking in treats. - She hands the victor a bar of dark chocolate. - Please, help yourself.
Where there is chocolate, there are fruits, and fruits, as is known, bode ill, -- Ambrose recalled his grandfather's words. "She resembles Namma Ai, only the figure is not the same... You may climb the mountain for diamonds if you so wish, my friend, but do not let the golden nuggets slip by along the way" -- the spiteful spirit chimed in with its valuable opinion here as well. "Were you not also unable to reach a diamond from the heights?" -- Ambrose could not hear the grey demons, and knew little of his bodiless friend-foe, but by intuition, it seemed, he had hit the mark. "Perhaps... Or perhaps the true diamonds were the comrades with whom I walked the path..." -- this time, a barely perceptible note of sadness crept into the voice of the genie-at-his-ear.
-- I thank you! I shall not miss the chance to taste that which your native land is famed for, and the custom of my own fatherland likewise deems it proper that the victor in friendly duels should always claim at least a small reward, lest we anger the gods and our ancestors... But it seems neither the time nor the place here for a lengthy exchange of courtesies; the arena must be cleared for the next worthy combatants of the contest.
E si sui vius, er mi grans benananza, e si ieu muoir, er mi grans deliuriers
Граф Орлов
