And then I sounded a fresh note.

"Bethink you of Madonna Paola and of the brave things you promised her." He flushed a little, then paled again, then sat very still.

Shame had touched him at last, yet its grip was not enough to make a man of him.
A moment he remained irresolute, whilst that shame fought a hard battle with his fears.
But those fears proved stronger in the end, and his shame was overthrown by them.
"I dare not," he gasped, his slender, delicate hands clutching at the arms of his chair.

"Heaven knows I am not skilled in the use of arms." "It asks no skill," I assured him.

"Put on your armour, take a sword and lay about you.