cried Roy. "I might hurt you, while
you couldn't hurt me."

"Couldn't I?" said the old fellow, drily. "I'm afraid I could, and more
than you could me. Now, then, take that blade."

He took one from the wall, a handsome-looking sword, upon which the
armourer who made it had bestowed a good deal of ingenious labour,
carving the sides, and ornamenting the hilt with a couple of beautifully
fluted representations in steel of the scallop shell, so placed that
they formed as complete a protection to the hand of the user as that
provided in the basket-hilted Scottish claymore.

"Find that too heavy for you, sir?"

"It is heavy," said Roy; "but one seems to be able to handle it easily."

"Yes, sir; you'll find that will move lightly. You see it's so well
balanced by the hilt being made heavy. The blade comes up lightly, and,
with a fair chance, I believe I could cut a man in two with it after a
few touches on a grindstone."

"Ugh!" ejaculated Roy; "horrid!"

"Oh, I don't know, sir. Much more horrid if he cut you in two. It's of
no use to be thin-skinned over fighting in earnest. Man's got to defend
himself. Now, then, let's give you a word or two of advice to begin
with. A good swordsman makes his blade move so sharply that you can
hardly see it go through the air. You must make it fly about like
lightning. Now then, ready?"

"Yes; but you won't mind if I hurt you?"

"Don't you be afraid of doing that, sir. If you hurt me, it'll serve me
right for being such a bungler. _En garde_!"

Roy threw himself into position, and the old soldier attacked him very
slowly, cutting at his neck on either side, then down straight at his
head, next at his arms and legs; and in every case, though in a bungling
way, Roy interposed his blade after the fashion shown by his adversary.

Then the old fellow drew back and rested the point of his ash stick upon
his toe, while Roy panted a little, and smiled with satisfaction.

"Come," he said; "I wasn't so bad there."

"Oh, no, you weren't so bad there, because you showed that you'd got
some idea of what a sword's for; but when you're ready we'll begin
again. May as well have something to think about till to-morrow
morning. First man you fight with won't stop to ask whether you're
ready, you know."

"I suppose not; but wait a minute."

"Hour, if you like, sir; but your arms'll soon get hard. Seems a pity,
though, that they're not harder now. I often asked the master to