But I had understood.

Softly I unsheathed that virgin blade and read the Spanish inscription, that through my tears of rage and shame seemed blurred; a proud inscription was it, instinct with the punctilio of proud Spain--'Draw me not without motive, sheathe me not without honour.' Motive there was and to spare; honour I swore there should be; and with that oath, and that brave sword girt to me, I set out to my first combat." Sir Crispin paused and a sigh escaped him, followed by a laugh of bitterness.
"I lost that sword years ago," said he musingly.

"The sword and I have been close friends in life, but my companion has been a blade of coarser make, carrying no inscriptions to prick at a man's conscience and make a craven of him." He laughed again, and again he fell a-musing, till Kenneth's voice aroused him.
"Your story, sir." Twilight shadows were gathering in their garret, and as he turned his face towards the youth, he was unable to make out his features; but his tone had been eager, and Crispin noted that he sat with head bent forward and that his eyes shone feverishly.
"It interests you, eh?
Ah, well--hot foot I went to the hall, and with burning words I called upon those dogs to render satisfaction for the dishonour they had put upon my house.

Will you believe, Kenneth, that they denied me?
They sheltered their craven lives behind a shield of mock valour.

They would not fight a boy, they said, and bade me get my beard grown when haply they would give ear to my grievance.
"And so, a shame and rage a hundredfold more bitter than that which I had borne thither did I carry thence.