“Well,” said he, “this is good speaking on eight crowns, a provincial accent, and a piece of rusty iron which is fitter to toast half a saddle of mutton than to enhance the scabbard of a gentleman. And if you make this speaking good, why, it will be still better. For this is a very high standard, brother, you are setting up, and I doubt me grievously whether even the Preux Chevalier would be able to maintain it.”
He concluded with such an insolent and unexpected roar of laughter as made me grow furious.
“I would have you beware, sir!” I cried. “Were you twice as gross in your stature and three times as rude, I run you through the heart if again you contemn the unsullied name of my noble father.”
“Your father was one-handed,” said this gigantical ruffian, looking at me steadily. “He was as stupid in his wits as a Spanish mule, and I spit in the face of the unbearded child that bears his name.”
CHAPTER VI
OF A PRIVATE BRAWL. I TAKE PROFIT AT THE COST OF REPUTATION
Before I could draw my sword my challenger was on his feet, had kicked away the stool on which he had sat, and had bared his own weapon. I was so overcome with fury that I could not stay to mark his enormous stature, yet his head seemed to live among the hams in the roof.
This was the first occasion I had drawn my sword in a quarrel, but I needed to ask no better. The pure reputation of this noble heart I was defending nerved my right arm with unimaginable strength. Besides, I was twenty-one years old, well grown and nourished for one of my nation. My blade was of an ancient pattern, but a true Toledo of the first quality, and many high deeds of the field had been wrought thereby. The Englishman towered above me in the extremity of his stature, but had he been of twice that assemblance, in my present mood I would not have feared him. For, as I was fain to believe, some of the hardiest fighting blood of our northern provinces was in my veins. This was my first duello; but you must not forget, reader, that my father had instructed me how to bear my point, how to thrust, how to receive, and, above all, how to conduct the wrist as laid down by the foremost practice.
We spent little time in courtesies, for my anger would not permit them. At once I ran in upon my adversary, thrusting straight at his heart. Yet he received my sword on his own with a skill that was truly wonderful, and turned it aside with ease. All the power I possessed was behind it, yet he cast it off almost as complacently as if he had been brushing away a mosquito. The sting of this failure and his air of disdain caused me to spring at him like a cat, yet, I grieve to say, without its wariness, for, do what I would, I was unable to come near him. He saved every stroke with a most marvellous blade, not once moving his wrist or changing his posture. After this action had proceeded for some minutes I was compelled to draw off to fetch my breath; whereon said my adversary with a snarl of contempt that hurt me more than my impotence:—
“I wish, my son, you would help me to pass the time of the day.”
My instant response was a most furious slash at his head, although it is proper to mention that this method was not recommended in the rules of the art as expounded by the illustrious Don Ygnacio. But I grieve to confess that rage had overmastered me. Yet Sir Richard Pendragon evaded this blow as dexterously as he had evaded the others.