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.
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