"Embroidery," she replied, "and how to brew a Madeira punch."
At that moment the baronet opened the door and admitted William Trigget. The master mariner carried a pair of stout oak sticks with basket-work guards under his arm.
"Does your education commence so soon?" inquired Beatrix of Kingswell.
"Somebody's does," he replied, with a return of his old confidence. With the lady's permission and Sir Ralph's assistance, Trigget and Kingswell cleared the middle of the floor of rugs and the table. They removed their outer coats. Trigget was the taller, as well as the heavier, of the two. Without further preliminaries, they fell on, and the dry whacking of the sticks against one another, varied occasionally by the muffled thud of wood against cloth, filled the cabin. It was a fine display of the English style—slash, cut, and guard, with never a side-step nor retreat. After ten minutes of it, Trigget cried "enough," and stumbled out of the danger zone. His right arm was numb. His shoulders and sides ached, and his head swam; Kingswell was without a touch.
Neither Beatrix nor Sir Ralph, nor yet Trigget, for that matter, concealed their astonishment at the result of the bout. "And now, sir," said Kingswell, "I should like a lesson in the other style."
The baronet took down a pair of light, edgeless blades with blunted points. After a few words as to the manner of standing, they crossed the lithe weapons. In a second Kingswell's was jerked from his hand and sent bounding across the room. He recovered it without a word and returned to the combat. By this time the light was failing. After about a dozen passes, he was again disarmed. His gray eyes danced, and he laughed gaily as he picked up his weapon.
"I see the way of that trick," he said.
He returned to the one-sided engagement with, if possible, more energy and eagerness than before. Already he had the attitude and stamping manner of attack to perfection. Sir Ralph tested his defence again and again without slipping through. Three times he tried the circular, twisting stroke with which he had disarmed the novice before without success. Wondering, and slightly irritated, he put out fresh efforts, and forgot all about his defence. The blades rasped, and rang, and whispered. The blunted point was at Kingswell's breast, at his throat, at his eyes; but it never touched. And, just as Mistress Beatrix was about to bid the combatants cease their exertions, because of the gathering dusk, Kingswell's point touched the insignificant but painful wound on the baronet's shoulder. With an exclamation, in which disgust, pain, and amusement were queerly blended, Sir Ralph dropped his foil to the floor.