“This Puritan dog has insulted me,” he cried.
Halfman nodded sagaciously. “And you would let a little of his malapert blood for him. But it may not be.”
He addressed Evander. “You are a prisoner on parole, wearing your sword by a lady’s favor, and may not use it here.”
“You are in the right,” Evander answered, “and I ask your lady’s pardon if for a moment I forgot where I am and why.”
“Yah, yah, fox,” grinned Sir Blaise, who believed that his enemy was glad to be out of the quarrel. But Halfman, who knew better, smiled.
“There are other ways,” he suggested, pleasantly, “by which two gentlemen may void their spleen without drawing their toasting-irons. Why should we not mimic sword-play with a pair of honest cudgels?”
Blaise slapped his thigh approvingly, for he was good at rustic sports. Halfman turned his dark face upon Evander.
“Has my suggestion the fortune to meet with your approval?” he asked. Evander nodded. “Then let Sir Blaise handle his own staff, and you, camerado, take mine—’tis of a length with your enemy’s—and set to.”
Halfman watched Evander narrowly while he spoke. Skill with the rapier did not necessarily imply skill with the cudgel. He bore Evander no grudge for overcoming him at fence, but if Sir Blaise proved the better man with the batoon, there would be a kind of compensation in it. He had heard that Sir Blaise was apt at country-sports and now Sir Blaise vaunted his knowledge.
“Let me tell you to your trembling,” he crowed, “that I am the best cudgel-player in these parts. I will drub you, I will trounce you, I will tan your hide.”