"Oh, I don't know, sir. Much more horrid if he cut you in two. It's of no use to be thin-skinned over fighting in earnest. Man's got to defend himself. Now, then, let's give you a word or two of advice to begin with. A good swordsman makes his blade move so sharply that you can hardly see it go through the air. You must make it fly about like lightning. Now then, ready?" "Yes; but you won't mind if I hurt you?" "Don't you be afraid of doing that, sir. If you hurt me, it'll serve me right for being such a bungler. _En garde_!" Roy threw himself into position, and the old soldier attacked him very slowly, cutting at his neck on either side, then down straight at his head, next at his arms and legs; and in every case, though in a bungling way, Roy interposed his blade after the fashion shown by his adversary. Then the old fellow drew back and rested the point of his ash stick upon his toe, while Roy panted a little, and smiled with satisfaction. "Come," he said; "I wasn't so bad there." "Oh, no, you weren't so bad there, because you showed that you'd got some idea of what a sword's for; but when you're ready we'll begin again. May as well have something to think about till to-morrow morning. First man you fight with won't stop to ask whether you're ready, you know." "I suppose not; but wait a minute." "Hour, if you like, sir; but your arms'll soon get hard. Seems a pity, though, that they're not harder now. I often asked the master to let me teach you how to use a sword." "Yes, I know; but my mother always objected. She doesn't like swords. I do." "Of course you do, sir. It's a lad's nature to like one. Ready?" "Yes," cried Roy, standing on his guard; "but look out this time, Ben, because I mean you to have something." "That's right, sir; but mind this: I'm not going to let my stick travel like a snail after a cabbage-leaf this time. I'm going to cut as I should with a sword, only I'm going to hit as if you were made of glass, so as not to break you. Now!" The old soldier's eyes flashed as he threw one foot forward, Roy doing the same; but it was his newly polished sword that flashed as he prepared to guard the cuts, taking care, or meaning to take care, to hold his blade at such an angle that the stick would glance off. The encounter ended in a few seconds. _Whizz, whirr, pat, pat, pat_, and the elastic ash sapling came down smartly upon the boy's arms, legs, sides, shoulders, and finished off with a rap on the head, with the result that Roy angrily threw the sword jangling upon the floor, and stood rubbing his arms and sides viciously. "You said you were going to hit at me as if I were made of glass," cried the boy. "So I did. Don't mean to say those taps hurt you?" "Hurt? They sting horribly." "Why, those cuts would hardly have killed flies, sir. But why didn't you guard?" "Guard? I did guard," cried Roy, angrily, as he rubbed away; "but you were so quick."