"You've got same all mixed up wi' fashionable school-play, Master Pancr—Tom, my lud, which though pretty ain't by no means the real thing."
"How so, Zebedee?"
"Why sir, this here posturing and flourishing is well enough a-'twixt fine gentlemen as happens to draw on each other after a bottle or to wipe out an ill word in a drop or so o' blood—yes. But 'tis different when you're opposite a skilled duellist as means to kill. His honour the Major now, he learned in a hard school and his honour learned me."
"He's had several affairs I think, Zeb?"
"Twenty and two, sir!"
"Ha!" sighed the Viscount, "I've had one and got pricked in the thigh! Here, show me the way on't, Sergeant." So saying, he turned weapon across forearm and bowing in true academic manner, proffered the jewelled hilt to the Sergeant who took it, tested spring and balance of the blade with practised hands, saluted and fell to the "engage"; then he lunged swiftly and recovered, all in a moment.
"'Tis a stroke hard to parry, sir!" said he.
"Gad love me!" sighed the Viscount, "do't again Zeb—slowly man and with explanations."
"Why look'ee sir, 'tis a trick o' the wrist on the disengage. You are in tierce—so, your point bearing so—very good! You play a thrust, thus d'ye see, then—whip! up comes your point and you follow in with a lunge—so! Try it, my lud."
"Hum!" said the Viscount, taking back his sword.