As Flor looked at him insolently, he drew his sword. "Come," he demanded impatiently, "I must have answer, else I take you to a provost. Possibly his way of finding your secret would be to your liking, eh?" Flor drew a deep breath and waited. Here was the final test of his new device. He had experimented, finding that even the charge of a _khada_ was harmless to him. Now, he would find if a sword could be rendered harmless. At the approach of the man, he had pressed the boss on his belt. The man seemed suddenly a little uncertain, so Flor spoke. "Why, who are you," he demanded haughtily, "to question the doings of your betters? Away with you, before I spit you with your own sword." The man shook his head, smiling sarcastically. "Hah!" he said, approaching Flor. "I know that accent. It stinks of the scullery. Tell me, Serf, where did you steal that----" He broke off, climaxing his question with an abrupt swing of the sword. Then, he fell back in surprise. Flor had thrust a hand out to ward off the blow, and the sword had been thrown back violently. The rebound tore it from its amazed owner's hand, and it thudded to the ground. The man-at-arms looked at it stupidly. Flor sprang aside, scooping up the weapon before the man could recover. "Now," he cried, "stand quite still. I shall have business with you." The expression on the man's face told of something more than mere surprise which held him quiet. Here was proof of the powers of the coronet. Flor looked savagely at his captive. "Take off your cap." Reluctantly, the man's hand came up. He removed his steel cap, holding it in his hand as he faced his captor. "That is fine." Flor pressed his advantage. "Now, your garments. Off with them!" The swordsman was nearly his size. Both of them had the heavy build of their mountain stock, and the garments of the free swordsman would do for Flor's purpose, even though they might not fit him perfectly. Who expected one of these roving soldiers of fortune to be dressed in the height of style? They were fighters, not models to show off the tailor's art. Flor watched as his prisoner started to disrobe, then pulled off his own single garment, carefully guiding it through the belt at his waist, so as not to disturb the talisman's powers. He threw the long shirt at the man before him. "Here," he ordered. "Put this on." He sensed a feeling of deep resentment--of hopeless rebellion. He repeated his demand, more emphatically. "Put it on, I say!" As the man stood before him, dressed in the rough shift of a serf, Flor smiled grimly. "And now," he said, "none will worry too much about a mere serf, or look too closely into his fate. Here." He slashed out with the sword, awkwardly, but effectively. "I shall have to find a new name," he told himself as he dressed in the garments of his victim. "No free swordsman would have a name like Flor. They all have two names."