“My father has taught me the use of the sword,” said I.
“Oh, so your father has taught you the use of the sword! Well, to judge by the length of your beard, good Don, I am inclined to suspect that your father had a worthy pupil.”
“I hope I may say so.”
“Oh, so you hope you may say so, my son! Well, now, I think you may take it, good Don, from one who has grown old in the love of virtue, that your father would know as much of the sword as a burgomaster knows of phlebotomy. You see, having had his right hand struck off in battle at a tender age, unless he happened to be a most infernally dexterous fellow he forfeited his only means of becoming a learned practitioner.”
The Englishman laughed in his belly.
“My father had excellent precept,” said I, “although, as you say, the Hand of God curtailed his practice.”
“Well now, my son,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, assuming a grave air, which yet did not appear a very sincere one, “he who speaks you is one whose practice the Hand of God has not curtailed. He was proficient with sword and basket in his tenderest infancy. He has played with all the first masters in Europe; he has made it a life study. With all the true principles of this inimitable art he is familiar. He has been complimented upon his talent and genius, natural and acquired, by those whom modesty forbids him to name. And all these stores, my worthy Don, of experience, ensample, and good wit are at your command for the ridiculous sum of an hundred crowns.”
“I have not an hundred crowns in the world, sir,” I confessed with reluctancy, for his arguments were masterful.
“By cock!” he snarled, “that is just as I suspected.”
There could be no mistaking the change in his demeanour when I made this unhappy confession. It caused him to resolve his gross and rough features into some form of contemplation. At last he said, with an eye that was like a weasel’s,—