It felt like a reliable weapon, and he no sooner clasped his eager fingers about the hilt than he knew he could depend upon it to the death.
Having thus armed himself he whirled about, for the dire threat of the old soldier still stung his ears, and he was mortally afraid the other might in his anger carry it out.
To a proud man like Owen, such an indignity would be worse than the danger of meeting an attack—and especially in her presence.
Thus, when able to flash the jewel hilted East Indian blade around so as to cover any possible attack from the old martinet, Roderic gave vent to an exclamation of satisfaction.
At home with a sword, he felt able to render a good account of his stewardship, since he had long taken a peculiar pride in learning the ways in which various nations handle the weapon—a grizzled old Turk had given him points in Constantinople—from an Algerian desert rover he had learned how they fought with the steel when robbers attacked the caravans—an expert Hindoo juggler who could place an apple on a man's cranium and with a fierce downward stroke sever it completely without harming a hair of the other's head had taken pleasure in teaching him a few tricks, while American cavalrymen had made him an adept with the sabre, and a French fencing master exhausted his repertoire in endeavoring to beat down his defense.
Taken in all, young Owen had no reason to fear any harm when thus given a blade with which to defend himself.
Nor did he mean to demolish the old veteran, with whom he had many times smoked the pipe of peace and good fellowship, exchanging stories of world wide experiences.
All he desired was a chance to defend himself against furious attacks.
Evidently Don Porfidio had not as yet recognized the man in the parlor of his bungalow.