here and there by a gaunt trophy of arms. In the
middle of the floor, engaged apparently in weighing one foil against
another, was a stout, dark-complexioned man, whose light and nimble
step, as he advanced to meet his visitor, gave the lie to his weight.

Certainly there came from a half-opened door at the end of the room a
stealthy sound as of rats taking cover. But Colonel John did not look
that way. His whole attention was bent upon the Maitre d'Armes, who
bowed low to him. Clicking his heels together, and extending his palms
in the French fashion, "Good-morning, sare," he said, his southern
accent unmistakable. "I make you welcome."

The Colonel returned his salute less elaborately. "The Maitre d'Armes
Lemoine?" he said.

"Yes, sare, that is me. At your service!"

"I am a stranger in Tralee, and I have been recommended to apply to
you. You are, I am told, accustomed to give lessons."

"With the small-sword?" the Frenchman answered, with the same gesture
of the open hands. "It is my profession."

"I am desirous of brushing up my knowledge--such as it is."

"A vare good notion," the fencing-master replied, his black beady eyes
twinkling. "Vare good for me. Vare good also for you. Always ready, is
the gentleman's motto; and to make himself ready, his high recreation.
But, doubtless, sare," with a faint smile, "you are proficient, and I
teach you nothing. You come but to sweat a little." An observant person
would have noticed that as he said this he raised his voice above his
usual tone.

"At one time," Colonel John replied with simplicity, "I was fairly
proficient. Then--this happened!" He held out his right hand. "You
see?"

"Ah!" the Frenchman said in a low tone, and he raised his hands. "That
is ogly! That is vare ogly! Can you hold with that?" he added,
inspecting the hand with interest. He was a different man.

"So, so," the Colonel answered cheerfully.

"Not strongly, eh? It is not possible."

"Not very strongly," the Colonel assented. His hand, like Bale's,
lacked two fingers.

Lemoine muttered something under his breath, and looked at the Colonel
with a wrinkled brow. "Tut--tut!" he said, "and how long are you like
that, sare?"

"Seven years."

"Pity! pity!" Lemoine exclaimed. Again he looked at his visitor with
perplexed eyes. After which, "Dam!" he said suddenly.

The Colonel stared.

"It is not right!" the Frenchman continued, frowning. "I--no! Pardon
me, sare, I do not fence with _le