He made no move towards arming himself, but stood glaring at me in a white rage.
‘I am prepared to prove,’ I answered as calmly as I could, ‘that the sword to which you allude is mine. But I will give you no explanation. If you will oblige me by asking your father to join us, I will tell him the whole story.’
‘I will have a warrant out against you.’
‘As you please. I am obliged to you for mentioning it. I shall be ready. I have the sword, and intend to keep it. And by the way, I had better secure the scabbard as well,’ I added, as with a sudden spring I caught it also from the wall, and again stood prepared.
He ground his teeth with rage. He was one of those who, trusting to their superior strength, are not much afraid of a row, but cannot face cold steel: soldier as he had been, it made him nervous.
‘Insulted in my own house!’ he snarled from between his teeth.
‘Your father’s house,’ I corrected. ‘Call him, and I will give explanations.’
‘Damn your explanations! Get out of the house, you puppy; or I’ll have the servants up, and have you ducked in the horse-pond.’
‘Bah!’ I said. ‘There’s not one of them would lay hands on me at your bidding. Call your father, I say, or I will go and find him myself.’
He broke out in a succession of oaths, using language I had heard in the streets of London, but nowhere else. I stood perfectly still, and watchful. All at once he turned and went into the gallery, over the balustrade of which he shouted,