"You're dead, old fellow," he said at the second thrust.

"Yes, young master," answered Martin, "but remember that I killed you
long ago, so that you are only a ghost and of no account. Although I
have tried to learn its use to please you, I don't mean to fight with
a toasting fork. This is my weapon," and, seizing the great sword which
stood in the corner, he made it hiss through the air.

Foy took it from his hand and looked at it. It was a long straight
blade with a plain iron guard, or cage, for the hands, and on it, in old
letters, was engraved one Latin word, _Silentium_, "Silence."

"Why is it called 'Silence,' Martin?"

"Because it makes people silent, I suppose, master."

"What is its history, and how did you come by it?" asked Foy in a
malicious voice. He knew that the subject was a sore one with the huge
Frisian.

Martin turned red as his own beard and looked uncomfortable. "I
believe," he answered, staring upwards, "that it was the ancient Sword
of Justice of a little place up in Friesland. As to how I came by it,
well, I forget."

"And you call yourself a good Christian," said Foy reproachfully. "Now
I have heard that your head was going to be chopped off with this sword,
but that somehow you managed to steal it first and got away."

"There was something of the sort," mumbled Martin, "but it is so long
ago that it slips my mind. I was so often in broils and drunk in those
days--may the dear Lord forgive me--that I can't quite remember things.
And now, by your leave, I want to go to sleep."

"You old liar," said Foy shaking his head at him, "you killed that poor
executioner and made off with his sword. You know you did, and now you
are ashamed to own the truth."

"May be, may be," answered Martin vacuously; "so many things happen
in the world that a fool man cannot remember them all. I want to go to
sleep."

"Martin," said Foy, sitting down upon a stool and dragging off his
leather jerkin, "what used you to do before you turned holy? You have
never told me all the story. Come now, speak up. I won't tell Adrian."

"Nothing worth mentioning, Master Foy."

"Out with it, Martin."

"Well, if you wish to know, I am the son of a Friesland boor."

"--And an Englishwoman from Yarmouth: I know all that."

"Yes," repeated Martin, "an Englishwoman from Yarmouth. She was very
strong, my mother; she could hold up a cart on her shoulders while my
father greased the wheels, that is for a bet; otherwis