“It’s no good,” said Foy at last, rubbing himself ruefully. “What’s the use of guarding against you, you great brute, when you simply crash through my guard and hit me all the same? That isn’t science.”
“No, master,” answered Martin, “but it is business. If we had been using swords you would have been in pieces by now. No blame to you and no credit to me; my reach is longer and my arm heavier, that is all.”
“At any rate I am beaten,” said Foy; “now take the rapiers and give me a chance.”
Then they went at it with the thrusting-swords, rendered harmless by a disc of lead upon their points, and at this game the luck turned. Foy was active as a cat in the eye of a hawk, and twice he managed to get in under Martin’s guard.
“You’re dead, old fellow,” he said at the second thrust.
“Yes, young master,” answered Martin, “but remember that I killed you long ago, so that you are only a ghost and of no account. Although I have tried to learn its use to please you, I don’t mean to fight with a toasting fork. This is my weapon,” and, seizing the great sword which stood in the corner, he made it hiss through the air.
Foy took it from his hand and looked at it. It was a long straight blade with a plain iron guard, or cage, for the hands, and on it, in old letters, was engraved one Latin word, Silentium, “Silence.”
“Why is it called ‘Silence,’ Martin?”
“Because it makes people silent, I suppose, master.”
“What is its history, and how did you come by it?” asked Foy in a malicious voice. He knew that the subject was a sore one with the huge Frisian.