Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 30

Table of Contents

Bowie looked about him. Malot, it appeared, was something of an antiquarian, and this room had been fitted up by him as a museum of trenchant arms, which were the central interest of his life. Everywhere on the walls hung dueling weapons of all fashions, some plain, some very rich as to hilt and blade: a bristling array of instruments of death. Among them also were arms of ancient or exotic kinds: broadswords, poniards, claymores, scimitars, oriental hanjars, cutlasses, even a gladius of ancient Roman make, its blade almost rusted away but still displaying the sturdy, deadly design which made the Legions masters of their world.

Bowie’s eyes darkened with interest, “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a weapon with a jeweled handle.

“An Italian poniard of the sixteenth century—of the type used by the assassins of the Borgias.”

“And this?”

“A French dagger.” Malot pointed out an Abyssinian sickle blade, a rare Egyptian knife, a curved weapon with a heavy back which he said was a kukri from Nepal. Bowie halted before one of the exhibits, and Malot nodded with the satisfaction of the collector who sees his choicest prizes admired. “I thought you would find that of more than passing interest. A two-handed falchion of the Crusades.”

“May I take it down?”

“Assuredly.”

Bowie lifted the sword from the wall. It was single-edged, with a two-handed grip and a very wide steel guard. Its most remarkable feature was a round steel weight which slid up and down in a groove along the back of the blade.

“That is a steel apple,” said Malot, to Bowie’s puzzled look.

“What’s it for?”

“Raise the point of the sword upward.”

Bowie obeyed. The round weight slipped back against the hilt.

“Now strike—not hard—but to feel the weight of the blade.”

Bowie slashed the weapon through the air. With a whir the steel apple slid along its groove toward the point, where it was arrested. Twice he repeated the blows in the air, once easily, once with vigor.

“What a thing!” he exclaimed. “When you strike, the steel apple, running to the point, weights it and adds amazing force to the blow!”

“Medieval armorers were not without their ingenuity,” said Malot. “This weapon was to be used against mail.”

With a look of deep concentration, Bowie held the sword in his two hands and examined it from point to hilt. He observed the slight curve of the blade, and the fact that it was double-edged toward the point. Presently he replaced the falchion on its pegs and went on down the line examining other weapons.

“This,” he said, “is a Scottish dirk.”

Malot nodded.

“My uncle had one.” Bowie lifted it from the wall and weighed it in his hand. It was something between a short sword and a knife, its steel about two feet long.

“The balance is bad,” he said. “You couldn’t throw it.”

“You throw a knife, monsieur?”

“A little. The Cajuns are great knife throwers.”

“Before you is a Spanish cuchillo. Try it against the wooden target yonder.”

Bowie hung up the dirk and took the cuchillo, a straight-bladed knife with a leather-wrapped handle of horn. Turning toward the target, he whipped his arm through the air. The knife sang from his hand, struck point-first in the wood with a sharp rap, and quivered there.

“Bravo, monsieur!” Malot applauded.

Bowie shook his head. “I missed my mark by half a foot. The cuchillo is too light.” He glanced musingly at the dirk on the wall. “If you could put the principle of the steel apple into that, or something like it, you’d have a pretty deadly weapon.”

Malot was watching him closely. “You appear to have an affinity for the knife, monsieur. I have observed frequently such a thing. Some men take naturally to the sword, some to the pistol, as if they were born to it. Often these become great virtuosos with their chosen weapon. With you it may be the knife.”

“Somehow it appeals to me,” Bowie said. “My Highland blood, maybe.” He hesitated. “If I ever fought a duel, I think I’d choose something like this to fight it with.”

“A knife—in a duel?” The maître was shocked.

“Why not? One party at least wouldn’t be likely to walk away from a knife fight.”

“But—mon Dieu—how barbarous——”

“Isn’t death itself barbarous?”

“No! A duel should be a thing of art. There is a right way and a wrong way of conducting all things in civilized society—even to the least important. And a duel assuredly is one of the most important. With death as its object, it assumes the noble aspects of high tragedy. Why, therefore, deprive it of beauty?”

Malot’s face was very earnest.

“You observe good manners in other acts of your life, I suppose, monsieur? You do not trample upon the little feet of the lady who is your dancing partner? You converse with courtesy and decorum. Even in so crude a performance as eating, you observe etiquette? Why, then, throw all this aside in an affair of honor? Dueling, I repeat, is an art: in my poor opinion the highest of all arts. Honor is precious to a gentleman: when it is gone, he is like a beast. On the field of honor he gives to honor its highest expression. Bravery—artistry—finesse in deportment—honor. These are the four prime essentials of the duel. To these mere expertness in dealing death is only an addendum.”

Thus Malot, master of arms, on the one great religion of his life.

Bowie did not reply. He did not feel capable of arguing the point, but his nature was too forthright for this parade. Yet he recognized the fixed immutability of the duel as an institution. Already he himself had received one challenge—from Narcisse. A gentleman, it appeared, must hold himself always ready to face a call. He wished to avoid all quarrels, but if it happened to him ... he had his reservations about making it a mere flourish of etiquette.