It was a most finely-tempered piece of steel, for my stroke made no impression on it, though Ramiro winced and raised his stout sword to return the compliment.
"Body of God!" he croaked, "you become a very god of war, Giovanni.

To me, then, my lusty Mars! We'll make a fight of it that poets shall sing of over winter fires.

Look to yourself!" His sword caught me a cunning, well-aimed blow on the side of my helm, and thence, glanced to my shoulder.

But for the quality of Giovanni's head-piece of a truth there had been an end to the warring of a Fool.
I smote him back, a mighty blow upon his epauliere that shore the steel plate from his shoulder, and left him a vulnerable spot.

At that he swore ferociously, and his bloodshot eyes grew wicked as the fiend's.