"Malud is not the best swordsman in Nimmr," replied Sir Richard, "but——" he hesitated.
"I am the worst," Blake finished the sentence for him, laughingly.
Sir Richard looked up and smiled. "Thou wilt always joke, even in the face of death," he said. "Art all the men of this strange country thou tell'st of alike?"
"It is your move, Richard," said Blake.
"Hide not his sword from thine eyes with thy buckler, James," cautioned Richard. "Ever keep thine eyes upon his eyes until thou knowest whereat he striketh, then, with thy buckler ready, thou mayst intercept the blow, for he be over slow and always his eyes proclaim where his blade will fall. Full well I knoweth that for often have I exercised against him."
"And he hasn't killed you," Blake reminded him.
"Ah, we did but practice, but on the morrow it will be different, for Malud engages thee to the death, in mortal combat my friend, to wash away in blood the affront thou didst put upon him."
"He wants to kill me, just for that?" asked Blake. "I'll tell the world he's a touchy little rascal!"
"Were it only that, he might be satisfied merely to draw blood, but there is more that he hath against thee."
"More? What? I've scarcely spoken to him a dozen times," said Blake.