"Very well, sir; you'll see. Now, try again, and cut hard. Don't let your blade stop to get a bit of hay and a drop of water on the way, but give it me quick." "But I don't want to hurt you, Ben." "Well, I don't, either; and, what's more, I don't mean to let you." "But I shall, I'm sure, if I strike hard." "You think so, my lad; but do you know what a good sword is?" "A sword." "Yes, and a lot more. When a man can use it properly, it's a shield, and a breastplate, helmet, brasses, and everything else. Now, I'll just show you. Helmet, say. Now, you cut straight down at my head, just as if you were going to cut me in two pieces." "Put on one of the old helmets, then." "Tchah! I don't want any helmets. You cut." "And suppose I hurt you?" "S'pose you can't." "Well, I don't want to," said Roy; "so look out." "Right, sir; chop away." Roy raised his sword slowly, and the old soldier dropped the point of his and began to laugh. "That won't do, my lad; lift your blade as if you were going to bring it down again, not as if you meant to hang it up for an ornament on a peg." "Oh, very well," said Roy. "Now, then, I'm going to cut at you sharp." "Oh, are you, sir?" said Ben. "Now, if ever you're a soldier, and meet a man who means to kill you, shall you tell him you're going to cut at him sharply? because, if you do, you'll have his blade through you before you've half said it." "You are precious fond of your banter," cried Roy, who was a little put out now. "Serve you right if I do hurt you. But this blade won't cut, will it?" "Cut through the air if you move it sharp; that's about all, my lad." "Then take that," cried the boy. _Clang_--_cling_--_clatter_! Roy stared, for his sword had come in contact with that of the old soldier, and then was twisted out of his grasp and went rattling along the floor, Ben going after it to fetch it back. "Try again, sir." Roy was on his mettle now, and, grasping the hilt more firmly, he essayed to deliver a few blows at his opponent's legs, sides, and arms. But Ben's sword was always there first, and held at such an angle that his weapon glided off violently, as if from his own strength in delivering the blow; and, try hard as he could, he could not get near enough to make one touch. "Arms and head, my lad; sharp." Better satisfied now that he would not hurt his adversary, Roy struck down at the near shoulder, but his sword glanced away. Then at the head, the legs, everywhere that seemed to offer for a blow, but always for his blade to glance off with a harsh grating sound. "There, it's of no use; you can't get near me, my lad," said Ben, at last. "Oh, yes, I can. I was afraid of hurting you. I shall hit hard as hard," cried Roy, who felt nettled. "But I don't want to hurt you. Let's have sticks." "I'll get sticks directly, sir. You hit me first with the sword."