“Of course, I watch everything,” said the other, smiling. “That’s the way to learn. You must watch, too, my boy—good fencing masters—and learn how to parry and thrust. It’s of no use to carry a fine blade like that if you don’t master its use. Some day you may have to draw it to defend the King, and aim its point perhaps at an assassin’s heart; and that will be a harder target to hit than that motionless mark. You seem to have drawn upon the King’s furniture to the great damage of the carving. Denis, my lad, you ought to be able to handle a sword to better purpose than that. Why, even I, old man as I am, who have not held a blade in my hand this many a year, could make a better show.”
“At binding up wounds perhaps,” said the boy scornfully.
“Ay, and making of them too.—His Majesty is not in his chamber, I suppose?”
“Yes, he is,” said the lad shortly; “asleep.”
“Soundly, then, or the noise you made must have aroused him. Go and see if he is yet awake. I want to see him.”
The boy frowned, and gave a tug at his weapon, which refused to leave the wood.
“Gently, my lad,” said the doctor. “That is a very beautiful weapon, too good to spoil, and if you use it like that you will snap off the point, or drag the blade from the hilt.”
“But it is in so fast,” cried the lad impatiently, and he pulled with all his might, his anger gathering at being dictated to and taught.
“Let me,” said the doctor, raising one hand; and the lad resented the offer for the moment, but on second thoughts gave way.
“Perhaps you will find it as hard as I do,” he said, with a malicious smile.