“Under the which circumstances, I was bound to draw upon you,” continued Sir Hector ponderously, “and you, sir, refused to fight, and stomached the insult. Well, sir, are you suffering from an indigestion? Have you thought better of your refusal?”
“I have!” answered Sir John. “Better and better.”
“Why, then, sir,” answered Sir Hector, reaching for his long Andrea Ferrara from adjacent corner, “there will be plenty of space for us in the tap-room——”
“But your arm, sir?” demurred Sir John.
“Tush—’tis well! Besides,’twas my left. But where is your sword?”
“Upstairs, sir, where it will surely remain,” answered Sir John, and smiled. And, meeting this smile, Sir Hector loosed his great weapon very suddenly, much as if it had burned his fingers.
“Johnnie—Sir John,” he stammered, “what d’ye mean? Why are you here?”
“Surely, Hector, oh, surely you can guess—you that were my father’s comrade and my best friend?”
Sir Hector turned to stare down into the fire, and when next he spoke, voice and manner were wholly changed.