I had feared a rebuff. I had thought that even old Falcone might laugh at
one predestined to the study of theology, desiring to enter into the
mysteries of sword-craft. But my fears were far indeed from having a
foundation. There was no laughter in the equerry's grey eyes, whilst the
smile upon his lips was a smile of gladness, of eagerness, almost of
thankfulness to see me so set.
And so it came to pass that daily thereafter did we practise for an hour or
so in the armoury with sword and buckler, and with every lesson my
proficiency with the iron grew in a manner that Falcone termed prodigious,
swearing that I was born to the sword, that the knack of it was in the very
blood of me.
It may be that affection for me caused him to overrate the progress that I
made and the aptitude I showed; it may even be that what he said was no
more than the good-natured flattery of one who loved me and would have me
take pleasure in myself. And yet when I look back at the lad I was, I
incline to think that he spoke no more than sober truth.
I have alluded to the curious, almost inexplicable delight it afforded me
to feel in my hands the balance of a pike for the first time. Fain would I
tell you something of all that I felt when first my fingers closed about a
sword-hilt, the forefinger passed over the quillons in the new manner, as
Falcone showed me.
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