We halted by a small brook at midday, feeding the horses and
ourselves out of the saddle-bags.

"Ain't jest eggzac'ly used t' this kind uv a sickle," said D'ri, as
he felt the edge of his sabre, "but I 'll be dummed ef it don't
seem es ef I 'd orter be ruther dang'rous with thet air 'n my hand."

He knew a little about rough fighting with a sabre. He had seen my
father and me go at each other hammer and tongs there in our
door-yard every day of good weather. Stormy days he had always
stood by in the kitchen, roaring with laughter, as the good steel
rang and the house trembled. He had been slow to come to it, but
had had his try with us, and had learned to take an attack without
flinching. I went at him hard for a final lesson that day in the
woods--a great folly, I was soon to know. We got warm and made
more noise than I had any thought of. My horse took alarm and
pulled away, running into a thicket. I turned to catch him.

"Judas Priest!" said D'ri.

There, within ten feet of us, I saw what made me, ever after, a
more prudent man. It was an English officer leaning on his sword,
a tall and handsome fellow of some forty years, in shiny top-hoots
and scarlet blouse and gauntlets of brown kid.

"You are quite clever," said he, touching his gray mustache.

I made no answer, but stood pulling myself together.