_Exit_ de Warrenne--and Hell the worse for it----" and the boy awoke.
He kissed the sword and fell asleep again.
One day, when receiving his morning fencing and boxing lessons of Sergeant Havlan, he astonished that warrior (and made a bitter enemy of him) by warning him against allowing his blade to rest on the Sergeant's hilt, and by hitting him clean and fair whenever it was allowed to happen.

Also, by talking of "the Italian school of fence" and of "invitations"-- the which were wholly outside the fencing-philosophy of the French-trained swordsman.

At the age of fifteen the boy was too good for the man who had been the best that Aldershot had known, who had run a _salle d'armes_ for years, and who was much sought by ambitious members of the Sword Club.
The Sword, from the day of that newly vivid dream, became to the boy what his Symbol is to the religious fanatic, and he was content to sit and stare at it, musing, for hours.
The sad-eyed, sentimental lady encouraged him and spoke of Knights, Chivalry, Honour, _Noblesse Oblige_, and Ideals such as the nineteenth century knew not and the world will never know again.
"Be a real and true Knight, sonny darling," she would say, "and live to _help_.

Help women--God knows they need it.

And try to be able to say at the end of your life, 'I have never made a woman weep'.