But spring as I would I could
not avoid the thrust altogether. It was aimed at my heart and it pierced
the sleeve of my left arm, passing through the flesh--no more. Yet at
the pain of that cut all thought of flight left me, and instead of it
a cold anger filled me, causing me to wish to kill this man who had
attacked me thus and unprovoked. In my hand was my stout oaken staff
which I had cut myself on the banks of Hollow Hill, and if I would
fight I must make such play with this as I might. It seems a poor weapon
indeed to match against a Toledo blade in the hands of one who could
handle it well, and yet there are virtues in a cudgel, for when a man
sees himself threatened with it, he is likely to forget that he holds
in his hand a more deadly weapon, and to take to the guarding of his own
head in place of running his adversary through the body.
And that was what chanced in this case, though how it came about exactly
I cannot tell. The Spaniard was a fine swordsman, and had I been armed
as he was would doubtless have overmatched me, who at that age had no
practice in the art, which was almost unknown in England. But when he
saw the big stick flourished over him he forgot his own advantage, and
raised his arm to ward away the blow. Down it came upon the back of his
hand, and lo! his sword fell from it to the grass. But I did not spare
him because of that, for my blood was up.
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