That Was How He Had
Fought And Had Killed, And Because Of That Way Of Fighting He Had Got
His
Desire and had been permitted to live in peace and quiet until he
had grown grey, and no fighter or
Swashbuckler had said to him, "Do
you still count yourself a killer of men? then kill me and prove your
right to the title," and no one had jeered at or called him "gringo."
In spite of this discouragement my brother was quite determined to
learn the art of defending himself with a knife, and he would often go
out into the plantation and practise for an hour with a tree for an
opponent, and try to capture Jack's unpremeditated art of darting
hither and thither about his enemy and making his deadly strokes. But
as the tree stood still and had no knife to oppose him, it was
unsatisfactory, and one day he proposed to me and my younger brother
to have a fight with knives, just to find out if he was making any
progress. He took us out to the far end of the plantation, where no
one would see us, and produced three very big knives, with blades like
butchers' knives, and asked us to attack him with all our might and
try our best to wound him, while he would act solely on the defensive.
At first we declined, and reminded him that he had punished us
terribly with gloves and foils and singlestick, and that it would be
even worse with knives-he would cut us in pieces! No, he said, he
would not dream of hurting us: it would be absolutely safe for us, and
for him too, as he didn't for a moment believe that we could touch him
with our weapons, no matter how hard we tried. And at last we were
persuaded, and taking off our jackets and wrapping them, gaucho-
fashion, on our left arms as a protection, we attacked him with the
big knives, and getting excited we slashed and lunged at him with all
our power, while he danced and jumped and flew about a la Jack the
Killer, using his knife only to guard himself and to try and knock
ours out of our hands; but in one such attempt at disarming me his
weapon went too far and wounded my right arm about three inches below
the shoulder. The blood rushed out and dyed my sleeve red, and the
fight came to an end. He was greatly distressed, and' running off to
the house, quickly returned with a jug of water, sponge, towel, and
linen to bind the wounded arm. It was a deep long cut, and the scar
has remained to this day, so that I can never wash in the morning
without seeing it and remembering that old fight with knives.
Eventually he succeeded in stopping the flow of blood, and binding my
arm tightly round; and then he made the desponding remark, "Of course
they will have to know all about it now."
"Oh no," I returned, "why should they?
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