"And I suppose I'm not a liar, Master Goodenough," cried the stout soldier, glowering sullenly at the individual who had hazarded the last observation. "Nor a cowardly idiot neither, like some folks here." Then he set to rubbing again at his damaged limb.
"Oh! the gracious powers forbid!" laughed Lord Howard, lifting his white jewelled hand, "we're all brave and honourable men here, surely. And vastly too clever to split like a bundle of twigs about nothing at all."
"Nothing!"
"Ay, less than nothing; for by my faith, Master Rumsey, I should be inclined to count this loss a fine omen. Thirteen's an unlucky number, so old wives say. And twelve of the things is enough in all conscience."
"And too many to my thinking," approvingly nodded Goodenough.
Playing with edge tools.
"Even if forced to extremes," continued Howard, "why, one of these sharp little Frenchmen here," and he began handling one of the blades as he spoke, and laid it lightly across his finger, "would do all the business in a twinkling. What say you, Master Rumbold?"
"That," answered Rumbold, breaking silence at last, "is not the point."
"No, by my faith! 'Tis but the edge," cried Lord Howard, with a grimace of sudden pain, and hastily throwing down the weapon, "the foul fiend's own grindstone must have sharpened the confounded blade!" And dragging his gossamer-laced handkerchief from his pocket, he wound it round his hand.
"Has it drawn blood, my lord?" timorously asked Goodenough, turning pale, and craning his neck forward.