Truly he had not over-many pleasant recollections to recall to her mind, yet one he had sweet to him, since the knowledge of it lay between their two hearts alone. So suddenly, as they walked, he fell back a pace or two, and in a pause turned to her with the question:
"Where learned you the art of fence, Mistress Barbara?"
She started and blushed. Then answered with a spice of mischief:
"My master is beside me. Ralph initiated me in the art, and hath even greater skill than I, but we cannot all be experts," with a saucy glance. "Of late years I have practised mostly with Rupert."
He saw the mischief in her face, but forgave it freely.
"Methought I recognised a trick or two of Jules Berin when we crossed blades. Has your brother studied with him?"
"No, but of his pupil. What know you of Jules Berin?" she asked quickly, a note of suspicion in her voice.
He laughed, and answered unheeding:
"Faith, I have been often to Paris, and we always have a bout together. For a soldier picks up many tricks in his wanderings, and, indeed, I have studied the art both in France, Italy, and the Low Countries. 'Tis one of the finest pleasures in the world"—he continued with enthusiasm—"to be pitted against a skilled adversary, straining every effort of wrist, eye and nerve."
There was a moment's silence. Then Barbara demanded quietly: