“For the hundredth time, Seymour, lad, _mention not the hilt-thrust_, as you love me and the King,” said this last one quietly as he approached the gentleman; and then the two couples behaved in a ridiculous manner with their befeathered hats, waving them in great circles as they bowed to each other, and finally laying them on their hearts before replacing them. “Mine honour is my guide, Will,” answered the gentleman called Seymour, somewhat pompously the boy considered, though he did not know the word. Sir Seymour then began to remove the slashed coat and other garments until he stood in his silk stockings, baggy knickerbockers, and jolly cambric shirt—nice and loose and free at the neck as the boy thought. He rolled up his right sleeve, drew the sword, and made one or two passes—like Sergeant Havlan always did before he began fencing. The other two men, meantime, had been behaving somewhat similarly—talking together earnestly and one of them undressing. The one who did this was a very powerful-looking man and the arm he bared reminded the boy of that of a “Strong Man” he had seen recently at Monksmead Fair, in a tent, and strangely enough his face reminded him of that of his own Father. He had a nasty face though, the boy considered, and looked like a bounder because he had pimples, a swelly nose, a loud voice, and a swanky manner. The boy disapproved of him wholly. It was like his cheek to resemble Father, as well as to have the same name. His companion came over to the gentleman called Will, carrying the strong man’s bared sword and, bowing ridiculously (with his hat, both hands, and his feet) said:— “Shall we measure, Captain Ormonde Delorme?” Captain Delorme then took the sword from Sir Seymour, bowed as the other had done, and handed him the sword with a mighty flourish, hilt first. It proved to be half an inch shorter than the other, and Captain Delorme remarked that his Principal would waive that. He and the strong man’s companion then chose a spot where the grass was very short and smooth, where there were no stones, twigs or inequalities, and where the light of the setting sun fell sideways upon the combatants—who tip-toed gingerly, and rather ridiculously, in their stockinged feet, to their respective positions. Facing each other, they saluted with their swords and then stood with the right arm pointing downwards and across the body so that the hilt of the sword was against the right thigh and the blade directed to the rear. “One word, Sir Matthew de Warrenne,” said Sir Seymour as they paused in this attitude. “If my point rests for a second on your hilt _you are a dead man_.” Sir Matthew laughed in an ugly manner and replied:— “And what is your knavish design now, Sir Seymour Stukeley?” “My design _was_ to warn you of an infallible trick of fence, Sir Matthew. It _now_ is to kill you—for the insult, and on behalf of … your own unhappy daughter.” The other yawned and remarked to his friend:—