What a lesson!
Henceforth I shall make it a rule to kill at least three men every
morning before I break my fast, so as to be sure that my good sword
plays freely--keep me in mind, Scapin, do you hear?"
"Perhaps Leander will return before long," says the valet; "suppose we
all help you to draw your 'TRUSTY BLADE,' so that you may be ready for
him."
Matamore, accordingly, plants himself firmly, holding the scabbard in
both hands, Scapin seizes the handle of the sword, Pandolphe clasps him
firmly round the waist, the notary tries to do as much by Pandolphe's
stout person, and they all pull and pull. For some time the rusty old
sword resists all their efforts, but at last yields suddenly, and the
three fall in a confused heap on the ground, with legs and arms waving
wildly in the air, while Matamore tumbles the other way, still clinging
to the now empty scabbard. Picking himself up as quickly as possible
he seizes his big sword, which has dropped from the valet's hand, and
waving it triumphantly says with stem emphasis, "Now Leander's fate is
sealed! There is but one way for him to escape certain death. He must
emigrate to some distant planet. If he be sufficiently fool-hardy to
remain on this globe I will find him, no matter in what distant land he
strives to hide himself, and transfix him with this good sword--unless
indeed he be first turned to stone by the terrible Medusa-like power of
my eye.
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