“Mistress Delia,” I said hurriedly, “the twelfth man has enter’d the house, and unless we consider our plans at once, all’s up with us.”
“Tush!” said the old gentleman in the chair, who (it seems) had heard all, and now sat up brisk as ever. “I, for my part shall mix another glass, and leave it all to Jacques. Come, sit by me, sir, and you shall see some pretty play. Why, Jacques is the neatest rogue with a small sword in all France!”
“Sir,” I put in, “they are a round dozen in all, and your life at present is not worth a penny’s purchase.”
“That’s a lie! ’Tis worth this bowl before me, that, with or without you, I mean to empty. What a fool thing is youth! Sir, you must be a dying man like myself to taste life properly.” And, as I am a truthful man, he struck up quavering merrily—
“Hey, nonni—nonni—no! Men are fools that wish to die! Is’t not fine to laugh and sing When the bells of death do ring? Is’t not fine to drown in wine, And turn upon the toe, And sing, hey—nonni—no? Hey, nonni—nonni—”
“—Come and sit, sir, nor spoil sport. You are too raw, I’ll wager, to be of any help; and boggling I detest.”
“Indeed, sir,” I broke in, now thoroughly anger’d, “I can use the small sword as well as another.”
“Tush! Try him, Jacques.”
Jacques, still wearing a stolid face, brought his weapon to the guard. Stung to the quick, I wheel’d round, and made a lunge or two, that he put aside as easily as though I were a babe. And then—I know not how it happened, but my sword slipp’d like ice out of my grasp, and went flying across the room. Jacques, sedately as on a matter of business, stepp’d to pick it up, while the old gentleman chuckled.
I was hot and asham’d, and a score of bitter words sprang to my tongue-tip, when the Frenchman, as he rose from stooping, caught my eye, and beckon’d me across to him.