“Thou Wolf-pup from a race of thieves unhung!” I shouted. “Get thee down from yon tall war-horse, and draw that sword if thou darest. Thou’lt make good thy mighty words or verily thou shalt eat them here and now.”
So saying I swung to the ground and drew my weapon. Carleton lost no time in doing likewise, and came at me with a fury which I had scarce expected. I met his thrust with the parry which my father had well taught me years agone; and had my enemy not sprung aside with the quickness of a cat, my sword in return had pierced his neck.
“Ha!” growled Carleton between his gritting teeth, “so the Mountjoy whelp hath already a trick or two of fence. ’Twill make the game the more worth the playing. Hast stomach for cold steel? Look now!”
He danced about me, thrusting and slashing wickedly with his heavy sword, and displayed not ill the training he had had in the halls of Cumberland. But since the day I could raise a foil, it had been my dearest plaything; and whenever my father had been at home, he had made my teaching his special care. Since his return from Scotland there had been scarce a day when we had not spent a brace of hours with the foils or with broadswords and bucklers. Some men are born for sword-play, as others, like Old Marvin, for the cross-bow; but Lionel of Carleton was not of these. A minute had not passed, as we circled and danced about one another, with our weapons striking fire in the shadow of the wood, before I knew that Carleton, with all his added years and training, was no more than a match for me, if indeed as much. He panted and cursed as each trick of thrust was met by its proper parry, and slipped most dangerously on the oak leaves underfoot as I stepped aside from his bull-like rushes. Presently my sword nicked him fairly on the arm, drawing a spurt of blood and a stream of oaths. He lunged wildly forward. I parried his thrust and drove my sword straight at his breast bone.
[Illustration: _THE FORCE OF MY BLOW DROVE HIM BACKWARD, BUT MY WEAPON PIERCED HIM NOT_]
The force of my blow drove him backward, but my weapon pierced him not. Then at once I realized that which made my blood turn cold. He was wearing beneath his doublet a shirt of linked mail; and I, without defense of any sort, was fighting an armored enemy.