He turned the thrust with his
staff. The colonel, throwing caution to the four winds, surrendered to
his rage. He struck again. The saber rang against the oak. This
dexterity with the staff carried no warning to the enraged officer. He
struck again and again. Then the old man struck back. The pain in the
colonel's arm was excruciating. His saber rattled to the stone flooring.
Before he could recover the weapon the victor had put his foot upon it.
He was still smiling, as if the whole affair was a bit of pastime.
On his part the colonel's blood suddenly cooled. This was no accident;
this meddling peasant had at some time or other held a saber in his hand
and knew how to use it famously well. The colonel realized that he had
played the fool nicely.
"My sword," he demanded, with as much dignity as he could muster.
"Will you sheathe it?" the old man asked mildly.
"Since it is of no particular use," bitterly.
"I could have broken it half a dozen times. Here, take it. But be wise
in the future, and draw it only in the right."
The gall was bitter on the colonel's tongue, but his head was evenly
balanced now. He jammed the blade into the scabbard.
"I should like a word or two with you outside," said the mountaineer.
"To what purpose?"
"To a good one, as you will learn.
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