The big entrance hall into which he was ushered was paved with earthen tiles, and, looking up at the stone walls, Michael had his first glimpse of the famous swords.
There were hundreds of them—poniards, scimitars, ancient swords of Japan, basket-hilted hangers, two-handed swords that had felt the grip of long-dead Crusaders.
“What do you think of ’em, eh?” Sir Gregory Penne spoke with the pride of an enthusiastic collector. “There isn’t one of them that could be duplicated, my boy; and they’re only the rag, tag and bobtail of my collection.”
He led his visitor along a broad corridor, lighted by square windows set at intervals, and here again the walls were covered with shining weapons. Throwing open a door, Sir Gregory ushered the other into a large room which was evidently his library, though the books were few, and, so far as Michael could see at first glance, the conventional volumes that are to be found in the houses of the country gentry.
Over the mantelshelf were two great swords of a pattern which Michael did not remember having seen before.
“What do you think of those?”
Penne lifted one from the silver hook which supported it, and drew it from its scabbard.
“Don’t feel the edge unless you want to cut yourself. This would split a hair, but it would also cut you in two, and you would never know what had happened till you fell apart!”
Suddenly his manner changed, and he almost snatched the sword from Michael’s hand, and, putting it back in its sheath, he hung it up.
“That is a Sumatran sword, isn’t it?”