“Like master like man,” was the ready Irish reply.

“You’re a sad blarneyer,” I laughed.  “You will be letting me disarm you, next.”

“No I won’t, sir, voluntarily,” he answered.  “You are not the Lotzen sort.”

“You have fenced with him?”

“Frequently.”

“And disarmed him?”

I saw Bernheim smile.

“Yes, once—­the first time we engaged.  He has disliked me ever since.”

“I am rather astonished at you,” I said; “where was your finesse?”

“It was quite unintentional.  He tried to work a coup that is very little known.  Instead of the regular defence I used one I had myself developed—­and which ends in a wrench.  I gave it a bit too vigorously and the Duke dropped his foil.”

Bernheim gave a gruff laugh.  “Dropped it!” he exclaimed.  “Aye, and so lightly it flew twenty feet and hit the wall near the roof.”

“I think,” said I, “I would like to know that coup and its defences.”

“They are yours, sir,” he said.  “But I am at a loss where Lotzen got the attack.  It isn’t known to six persons in Europe—­even among the maitres.”

“And your own defence?”

“Is, I am sure, known to me, alone.  The man, with whom I worked it out, died a week after it was perfected.”

“But, you have fenced with Lotzen frequently since then, you say?”

“Many times, sir.”

“Hasn’t he invariably used that particular attack?”

“And been met always by the regular defence.  I took no chances on his discovering the secret.  I am confident he thinks, now, I disarmed him by a mere accident.”

“I suppose you let him score on you occasionally?” I said.

Moore shook his head.  “Never, unless it were the very limit of his reach.  I don’t trust him—­sometimes, buttons are lost from foils.  I try to be very diplomatic by touching him very infrequently.  Though I rather think it is pearls before swine; for he is too good a fencer not to see I am sparing him, and too jealously vindictive to appreciate my courtesy.”

I picked up a foil and made it whistle through the air.

“Come, Colonel Bernheim,” I said, “I am at your service.  Shall we use the masks?”

“For Your Highness’s sake, yes,” he answered.  “I’m apt to be a trifle wild at times.”

There was nothing especially graceful about my senior Aide; and, besides being past the prime of life, he was of a rather bulky tallness, stolid and phlegmatic.  I could readily imagine his style, and a very few passes confirmed it.  He was of the ordinary type and I could have run him through without the least effort.  As it was, I touched him, presently, once on each arm—­then disengaged and saluted.

“I thank Your Highness,” he said; “it could just as well have been my heart and throat a dozen times.”

“I am younger and more active,” I explained.