"I came to have a little talk," said Matthew easily, taking in his man with a quick glance.
"Well, then, you had best descend those stairs again," replied the soldier; "I'm in no mood for talking."
"Now, that's curious," said Matthew genially, leaning against the wall, "because I am. I never felt more disposed to conversation in my life."
The soldier scowled and fingered his matchlock.
"But perhaps," Matthew continued, darting forward suddenly, and with a blow of the iron bar knocking the gun from the man's hand—"perhaps a little tussle would be more to your liking. I have a mind to smash your face. What do you say?"
The soldier drew his sword.
"No," said Matthew, striking it down with the bar; "I don't want iron. It's so noisy. I have the sound of iron all day in my smithy. Give me a little change." He kicked the sword along the passage, and threw his bar after it.
"Now," said he, "we are equal. Come!"
So saying, the blacksmith tapped the Roundhead on the chin. The soldier made an attempt to defend himself, but fisticuffs were out of his line, and Matthew had a series of easy openings. The smith punished him badly for a while, and then, remarking that he had set his heart on spoiling one or two more Roundheads before he died, followed the words with a blow on the soldier's nose that laid him low.
The blacksmith pulled himself together, and then, opening a cupboard door near by, pushed the sentry into it and turned the key.