"A pretty spirit!" he nodded. "'Tis a sweet and gentle youth all good beef and bone; a little green as yet, perchance, but 'tis no matter. A mighty arm, a noble thigh, and shoulders--body o' me! But 'tis in the breed. Young sir, by these same signs and portents my soul is uplifted and hope singeth a new song within me!" So saying, the stranger sprang nimbly to his feet and catching up one of the swords took it by the blade and gave its massy hilt to Beltane's hand. Said he: "Look well upon this blade, young sir; in duchy, kingdom or county you shall not find its match, nor the like of the terrible hand that bore it. Time was when this good steel--mark how it glitters yet!--struck deep for liberty and justice and all fair things, before whose might oppression quailed and hung its head, and in whose shadow peace and mercy rested. 'Twas long ago, but this good steel is bright and undimmed as ever. Ha! mark it, boy--those eyes o' thine shall ne'er behold its equal!"
So Beltane took hold upon the great sword, felt the spring and balance of the blade and viewed it up from glittering point to plain and simple cross-guard. And thus, graven deep within the broad steel he read this word: RESURGAM.
"Ha!" cried the stranger, "see you the legend, good youth? Speak me now what it doth signify."
And Beltane answered: "'I shall arise!'"
"'Arise' good boy, aye, verily, mark me that. 'Tis a fair thought, look you, and the motto of a great and noble house, and, by the Rood, I think, likewise a prophecy!" Thus speaking the stranger stooped, and taking up the other sword faced Beltane therewith, saying in soft and wheedling tones: "Come now, let us fight together thou and I, and deny me not, lest,--mark me this well, youth,--lest I spit at thee again."
Then he raised his sword, and smote Beltane with the flat of it, and the blow stung, wherefore Beltane instinctively swung his weapon and thrilled with sudden unknown joy at the clash of steel on steel; and so they engaged.
And there, within the leafy solitude, Beltane and the stranger fought together. The long blades whirled and flashed and rang upon the stillness; and ever, as they fought, the stranger smiled his wry smile, mocking and gibing at him, whereat Beltane's mouth grew the grimmer and his blows the heavier, yet wherever he struck, there already was the stranger's blade to meet him, whereat the stranger laughed fierce and loud, taunting him on this wise: "How now, thou dauber of colours, betake thee to thy little brush, belike it shall serve thee better! Aye me, betake thee to thy little brush, 'twere better fitted to thee than a noble sword, thou daubing boy!"