“I didn’t squeeze; I was only showing you,” answered Martin, opening his eyes. “Well, when their wits were gone of course it was easy to knock their heads together, so that they mightn’t find them again. You see,” he added, “if I had left them alive—well, they are dead anyway, and getting a hot supper by now, I expect. Which shall it be, master? Dutch stick or Spanish point?” “Stick first, then point,” answered Foy. “Good. We need ‘em both nowadays,” and Martin reached down a pair of ash plants fitted into old sword hilts to protect the hands of the players. They stood up to each other on guard, and then against the light of the lanterns it could be seen how huge a man was Martin. Foy, although well-built and sturdy, and like all his race of a stout habit, looked but a child beside the bulk of this great fellow. As for their stick game, which was in fact sword exercise, it is unnecessary to follow its details, for the end of it was what might almost have been expected. Foy sprang to and fro slashing and cutting, while Martin the solid scarcely moved his weapon. Then suddenly there would be a parry and a reach, and the stick would fall with a thud all down the length of Foy’s back, causing the dust to start from his leathern jerkin. “It’s no good,” said Foy at last, rubbing himself ruefully. “What’s the use of guarding against you, you great brute, when you simply crash through my guard and hit me all the same? That isn’t science.” “No, master,” answered Martin, “but it is business. If we had been using swords you would have been in pieces by now. No blame to you and no credit to me; my reach is longer and my arm heavier, that is all.” “At any rate I am beaten,” said Foy; “now take the rapiers and give me a chance.” Then they went at it with the thrusting-swords, rendered harmless by a disc of lead upon their points, and at this game the luck turned. Foy was active as a cat in the eye of a hawk, and twice he managed to get in under Martin’s guard. “You’re dead, old fellow,” he said at the second thrust. “Yes, young master,” answered Martin, “but remember that I killed you long ago, so that you are only a ghost and of no account. Although I have tried to learn its use to please you, I don’t mean to fight with a toasting fork. This is my weapon,” and, seizing the great sword which stood in the corner, he made it hiss through the air. Foy took it from his hand and looked at it. It was a long straight blade with a plain iron guard, or cage, for the hands, and on it, in old letters, was engraved one Latin word, _Silentium_, “Silence.” “Why is it called ‘Silence,’ Martin?” “Because it makes people silent, I suppose, master.” “What is its history, and how did you come by it?” asked Foy in a malicious voice. He knew that the subject was a sore one with the huge Frisian.