CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 1
Luigi Falcone at fifty-five had lost some hair from his head and some speed from his foot, but his shoulders were as strong and his hands almost as quick as in those days when he had been famous with spear and sword. Now, stepping back with a wide gesture of both sword and small target, he cried out, “Tizzo, you are asleep! Wake up! Wake up!”
Tizzo, given the name of Firebrand because his hair was flame red and his eyes were flame blue, looked up at the blue Italian sky and then through the vista of the trees toward Perugia which in the far distance threw up its towers like thin arms.
“Well, the day is warm,” said Tizzo, and yawned.
But Tizzo himself was not warm. All the exercise of wielding the target and the long, heavy sword had hardly brought a moisture to his forehead or caused him to take a single deep breath, partly because he had been stepping through the fencing practice so carelessly and partly because—though he was neither tall nor heavy—he was muscled as supple and smooth as a cat.
“The day is warm but you are not warm, Tizzo!” exclaimed Falcone. “God has given you nothing but a pleasant sort of laughter. You lack two inches of six feet. I could button you almost twice inside of one of my jackets. Nothing but skill can make up for the lack of weight in your hand; and here I am giving you my time, teaching you my finest strokes, and yet you sleep through the work! If you could touch me twice with the point or once with the edge, I’d give you whatever you ask.”
Tizzo stopped yawning and laughed that pleasant laughter which had commended him to the eye of rich Falcone fifteen years before when Luigi rode through the street of the little village. Through a swirl of fighting, scrambling lads he had heard screaming and laughter. The screaming came from a lad who had been cornered against a wall. The laughter came from a redheaded youngster who was pommeling the bigger boy.
So Falcone, stopping the fight, asked questions. The sound of that laughter had reminded him of his own childless years and empty, great house on the hill. To most Italians red hair and blue eyes would not have been attractive, but Falcone was one who always chose the unusual. That was why he had taken Tizzo home with him. The boy had no other name. Mother and father were unknown. He had simply grown up in the streets like a young wolf running along with many others of the same unmothered kind; they were the brood of war which was scattered up and down Italy.
He had been a page, a valet, and then like the rightful son of the house of Falcone he had been educated with all care. Falcone, turning from war to the adventures of the study and the golden mines of Greek literature which were dazzling the wits of the learned throughout the Western world, had Tizzo trained in the same tongues which he himself had mastered. He was very fond of the slender youth, but that fire which had flamed in the lad when he ran wild through the streets of the village had grown dim. What he did was done well, without effort, without enthusiasm. And the big, headlong nature of Falcone was disgusted by that casual response, that ceaseless indifference.
Now, however, that old shimmer of flame blue glanced in the eyes of Tizzo as it had not shone for years.
“Shall I have the rest of the day to go where I wish and do what I please?” he asked. “If I touch you twice with the point or once with the edge, shall I have that gift?”
Falcone stared.
“What would you do with so many hours?” he asked. “You could not travel as far as Perugia in that time. What would you do?”
Tizzo shrugged his shoulders.
“But you have what you please and a horse to take you on the way,” said Falcone, “if you touch me—edge or point—a single time!”
Tizzo laughed and threw the target from his arm. “What? Are you giving up before you begin?” demanded Falcone.
“Why should I have that weight in my hand?” asked Tizzo. “Now—on your guard—”
And he came gliding at Falcone.
In that day of fencing, when men were set to ward off or deliver tremendous thrusts or sweeping cuts that might cleave through plate armor, there was generally a forward posture of the body, both arms thrust a little out. This caused stiffness and slowness, but it braced a man against every shock. It was in this manner that Falcone stood, scowling out of his years of long experience, at that flame-headed lad who came in erect and swift and delicately poised, like a dancer.
Falcone feinted with the point and then made a long sweeping cut which if it had landed, in spite of the blunted edge of the sword, certainly might have broken bones.
But the sword whirred through the empty air. Tizzo had vanished from its path. No, he was there again in flesh and laughter on the right. Falcone, growling deeply in his throat, made a sudden attack. Strokes downright and sidewise, dangerous little upcuts, darting thrusts he showered at Tizzo.
Sometimes a mere touch of steel against steel made the ponderous stroke of Falcone glance past its target, a hair’s breadth from head or body. Sometimes a twist of the body, a short, lightning pass of the feet deceived the sword. Falcone, sweat streaming down his face, attacked that laughing shadow with redoubled might and in the midst of his attack felt a suddenly light pressure against his breast. He could hardly be sure for an instant. Then he realized that Tizzo had stepped in and out, moving his whole body more swiftly than most men could move the hand.
It was a touch, to be sure—with the point and exactly above the heart!
Luigi Falcone drew back a little and leaned on his blade.
“Quick! Neat! A pretty stroke! And worth not a straw against a man in armor.”
“In every armor there are joints, crevices,” said Tizzo. “Where is there armor through which a wasp cannot sting, somewhere? And where a wasp can sting the point of a sword can follow!”
“So?”
