“By my soul!” he exclaimed, “a knowledge of the world is a most desperate science. I have met many learned men in my travels, but that science always beat them. Cæsar was a learned man, but he would have had fewer holes in his doublet had he gone to school earlier. It is a deep science, my son; it is the deepest science of all. What do you know of deceit, my son, you who have never left your native mountains before this morning? You, with the dust of your rustic province upon your boots, what do you know of those who hold you in fair speaking that they may know the better where to put the knife?” “I confess, sir, I have thought but little of these things,” I said humbly, for my misadventure with the beggar woman was still in my mind, and my mother’s ring was no longer in the keeping of her only son. “Then you will do well to think upon it, my young companion,” said the Englishman, regarding me with his great red eyes. “You talk of fortune, Spaniard, you who have yet to move ten leagues into the world! Why, this is harebrained madness. You who have not even heard of the famous city of London and the great English nation, might easily fall in with a robber, or be most damnably cheated in a civil affair. Why, you who say ‘if you please’ to an innkeeper might easily lose your purse.” “I may be ill found in knowledge, sir, but I hope my sword is worthy,” said I, determined that none should contemn my valour, even if my poor mind was to be sneered at. “Oh, so you hope your sword is worthy, do you now?” The Englishman chuckled furiously as if moved by a conceit. “Well, Master No-Beard, that is a good accomplishment to carry, and I suspect that you may find it so one of these nights when there is no moon.” All the same Sir Richard Pendragon continued to laugh in his dry manner, and fell again to looking at me sideways. For my life I could not see where was the occasion for so much levity. “My father has taught me the use of the sword,” said I. “Oh, so your father has taught you the use of the sword! Well, to judge by the length of your beard, good Don, I am inclined to suspect that your father had a worthy pupil.” “I hope I may say so.” “Oh, so you hope you may say so, my son! Well, now, I think you may take it, good Don, from one who has grown old in the love of virtue, that your father would know as much of the sword as a burgomaster knows of phlebotomy. You see, having had his right hand struck off in battle at a tender age, unless he happened to be a most infernally dexterous fellow he forfeited his only means of becoming a learned practitioner.” The Englishman laughed in his belly. “My father had excellent precept,” said I, “although, as you say, the Hand of God curtailed his practice.”