"But he is best at the sword," said Gorenflot; "those who understand it, say so, and he is practicing from morning till night." "Ah! let us see," said Chicot. "No one here, except perhaps myself, is capable of fencing with him; but will you try him yourself, monsieur?" said Borromée. "I am but a poor bourgeois," said Chicot; "formerly I have used my sword like others, but now my legs tremble and my arm is weak." "But you practice still?" "A little," replied Chicot, with a smile. "However, you, Brother Borromée, who are all muscle and tendon, give a lesson to Brother Jacques, I beg, if the prior will permit it." "I shall be delighted," cried Gorenflot. The two combatants prepared for the trial. Borromée had the advantage in height and experience. The blood mounted to the cheeks of Jacques and animated them with a feverish color. Borromée gradually dropped all appearance of a monk, and was completely the maitre d'armes: he accompanied each thrust with a counsel or a reproach, but often the vigor and quickness of Jacques triumphed over the skill of his teacher, who was several times touched. When they paused, Chicot said, "Jacques touched six times and Borromée nine; that is well for the scholar, but not so well for the master." The flash of Borromée's eyes showed Chicot that he was proud. "Monsieur," replied he, in a tone which he endeavored to render calm, "the exercise of arms is a difficult one, especially for poor monks." "Nevertheless," said Chicot, "the master ought to be at least half as good again as his pupil, and if Jacques were calmer, I am certain he would fence as well as you." "I do not think so," replied Borromée, biting his lips with anger. "Well! I am sure of it." "M. Briquet, who is so clever, had better try Jacques himself," replied Borromée, in a bitter tone. "Oh! I am old." "Yes, but learned." "Ah! you mock," thought Chicot, "but wait." Then he said, "I am certain, however, that Brother Borromée, like a wise master, often let Jacques touch him out of complaisance." "Ah!" cried Jacques, frowning in his turn. "No," replied Borromée, "I love Jacques, certainly, but I do not spoil him in that manner. But try yourself, M. Briquet." "Oh, no." "Come, only one pass." "Try," said Gorenflot. "I will not hurt you, monsieur," said Jacques, "I have a very light hand." "Dear child," murmured Chicot, with a strange glance. "Well!" said he, "since every one wishes it, I will try," and he rose slowly, and prepared himself with about the agility of a tortoise. CHAPTER XXII. THE LESSON.