“I pray you, brother, do not make me laugh.” He trained his sidelong look upon me. “I have such an immoderately nimble humour--it has ever been the curse of my family from mother to daughter, from father to son--as doth cause the blood to commit all manner of outrages upon mine old head veins. All my ancestors died of a fluxion that did not die of steel. But I tell you, Spaniard, it is as plain as my hand that your father must have been a half-witted fellow to beget such a poor son.” “Sir Richard Pendragon,” I cried, incensed beyond endurance, “if you abuse my father I will run you through the heart!” “Well,” said he, “this is good speaking on eight crowns, a provincial accent, and a piece of rusty iron which is fitter to toast half a saddle of mutton than to enhance the scabbard of a gentleman. And if you make this speaking good, why, it will be still better. For this is a very high standard, brother, you are setting up, and I doubt me grievously whether even the Preux Chevalier would be able to maintain it.” He concluded with such an insolent and unexpected roar of laughter as made me grow furious. “I would have you beware, sir!” I cried. “Were you twice as gross in your stature and three times as rude, I run you through the heart if again you contemn the unsullied name of my noble father.” “Your father was one-handed,” said this gigantical ruffian, looking at me steadily. “He was as stupid in his wits as a Spanish mule, and I spit in the face of the unbearded child that bears his name.” CHAPTER VI OF A PRIVATE BRAWL. I TAKE PROFIT AT THE COST OF REPUTATION BEFORE I could draw my sword my challenger was on his feet, had kicked away the stool on which he had sat, and had bared his own weapon. I was so overcome with fury that I could not stay to mark his enormous stature, yet his head seemed to live among the hams in the roof. This was the first occasion I had drawn my sword in a quarrel, but I needed to ask no better. The pure reputation of this noble heart I was defending nerved my right arm with unimaginable strength. Besides, I was twenty-one years old, well grown and nourished for one of my nation. My blade was of an ancient pattern, but a true Toledo of the first quality, and many high deeds of the field had been wrought thereby. The Englishman towered above me in the extremity of his stature, but had he been of twice that assemblance, in my present mood I would not have feared him. For, as I was fain to believe, some of the hardiest fighting blood of our northern provinces was in my veins. This was my first duello; but you must not forget, reader, that my father had instructed me how to bear my point, how to thrust, how to receive, and, above all, how to conduct the wrist as laid down by the foremost practice.