“Tchah!” cried the old man, as blade met blade, his sword, in the most effortless way, being edge outward exactly where Roy struck. “Why, do you know, sir, if I’d been in arnest with you, that you would have been spitted like a cockchafer on a pin before you got your blade round to cut?”
“Not I,” said the boy, contemptuously.
“Very well, sir; you’ll see. Now, try again, and cut hard. Don’t let your blade stop to get a bit of hay and a drop of water on the way, but give it me quick.”
“But I don’t want to hurt you, Ben.”
“Well, I don’t, either; and, what’s more, I don’t mean to let you.”
“But I shall, I’m sure, if I strike hard.”
“You think so, my lad; but do you know what a good sword is?”
“A sword.”
“Yes, and a lot more. When a man can use it properly, it’s a shield, and a breastplate, helmet, brasses, and everything else. Now, I’ll just show you. Helmet, say. Now, you cut straight down at my head, just as if you were going to cut me in two pieces.”
“Put on one of the old helmets, then.”