“'Only once, François; a few passes, and no more.'
“'Just so; the first touch.'
“'Exactly; the first touch,' said he, as, taking off his cloak, and folding it neatly, he laid it on the grass.
“It was a strange thing, but in all our lives, from earliest boyhood up, we never had measured swords together; and though we were both maîtres d'armes, we never crossed blades, even in jest. Often and often had our comrades pitted us against each other, and laid wagers on the result, but we never would consent to meet; I cannot say why. It was not fear; I know not how to account for it, but such was the fact.
“'What blade do you wear, François?' said he, approaching me, as I arranged my jacket and vest, with my cap, on the ground.
“'A Rouen steel,' said I; 'too limber for most men, but I am so accustomed to it, I prefer it.'
“'Ah! a pretty weapon indeed,' said he, drawing it from the scabbard, and making one or two passes with it against an elder trunk. 'Was this the blade you had with you in Egypt?'
“'Yes; I have worn none other for eight years.'
“'Ah, ma foi! those Mamelukes. How I envy you those Mamelukes!' he muttered to himself, as he walked back to his place.
“'Move a little, a very little, to the left; there's a shadow from that tree. Can you see me well?' said I.