“Of course you must. I’ll feed you too, if you like, by-and-by.”
“But what did you mean,” said Denis, to change the conversation, as he smilingly yielded himself to the busy helpful hands of his new friend.
“What did I mean? Why, to help you.”
“No, no; I meant about those fellows riding roughshod over you and wanting to pick quarrels.”
“Oh, I see. I meant, I’m waiting my time. Can you fence—use a sword well?”
“Not very, but I’m practising hard.”
“Are you? So am I. We’ve got a French maître d’armes at Court, and he’s helping me and teaching me all he knows. He’s splendid! He likes me because I work so hand, and pats me on the back, and calls me ‘grand garçon’ and dear pupil. Ah, he’s a wonder. Only he makes me feel so stupid. He’s like one of those magician fellows when you cross swords with him. Yes, it’s just like magic; for when he likes he can make his long thin blade twist and twine about yours as if it were a snake and all alive; and before you know where you are it tightens round, and then twit, twang, yours is snatched out of your hand and gone flying across the room, making you feel as helpless as a child. Ah, you don’t know what it is to feel like that. I say, hold still. How am I to wipe you? That’s better.”
“But I do know what it is to feel like that,” cried Denis, as soon as he could get his face free from the white linen cloth his new friend was handling with great dexterity.
“You do?” cried the latter. “What, have you got a maître d’armes over where you came from?”
“Yes, and he’s here in this house now. You should have seen him in a desperate fight we had last night against about a score—”