"Yes," I said.

"Interesting," he said.

"Master!" said Phoebe, suddenly, again. But this time, from the note in her voice, we turned about, instantly.

"You there, hold!" cried an angry voice, that of a guardsman in the uniform of Ar, hurrying toward us. His hand was on the hilt of his sword.

We turned to face him, separating ourselves. This permits outflanking, the engagement by one, the death stroke by the other.

Instantly the guardsmen stopped. He was then some four or five yards from us. "You are armed," he said.

"It is lawful," I said. "We are not of Ar."

He drew his blade.

We, too, drew ours.

"You have drawn before a guardsman!" he said.

"Did you think we would not?" I asked.

"It is against the law," he said.

"Not our law," I said.

"What have you done here?" he asked. "The flute girls have worked enough today," I said. "We have sent them home."

"By whose authority?" he asked.

"By mine," I said.

"You are an officer?" he said.

"No," I said.

"I do not understand," he said.

"You are Cosian," said Marcus.

"I am a guardsman of Ar," said a fellow.

"You are Cosian," said Marcus.

"You have drawn a weapon against me," I said.

"You are of the warriors?" said the fellow. He wavered. He, too, knew the codes. "Yes," I said.

"And he?" asked the fellow.

"He, too," I said.

"You are not in scarlet," he said.

"True," I said. Did he think that the color of a fellow's garments was what made him a warrior? Surely he must realize that one not of the warriors might affect the scarlet, and that one who wore the grimed gray of a peasant, one barefoot, and armed only with the great staff, might be of the scarlet caste. It is not the uniform which makes the warrior, the soldier.

"There are two of you," he said, stepping back a pace.

"Yes," I said.

"Be off," said he, "before I place you under arrest."

"Perhaps you fellows should go about in squads of ten," I said.

"It is not necessary," he said.

"No," I said. "I suppose it is not necessary."

"Are you going to kill him?" Marcus asked me.

"I have not decided," I said.

"There are two of you," he said.

"You are a brave fellow," I said, "not to turn about, and flee." The odds, you see, were much against him, even were we mediocre swordsmen. One need only engage and defend, and the other strike.

"You dare not attack," he said. "It is day. Those of Ar watch."

"Is it true?" I asked Marcus, not taking my eyes off the fellow.

Marcus stepped back, shielding himself behind me. "Yes," he said.

"Interesting," I said.

"You see," he said. "There are many witnesses."

"They are not rushing for aid are they?" I asked Marcus.

"No," he said.

"I suspect they will have seen nothing," I said.

The fellow turned pale.

"You are cowards!" he said.

"Which of us will kill him?" asked Marcus.

"It does not matter," I said.

The fellow stepped back another pace.

"Why do you not run?" I asked.

"Those of Ar watch," he said.

"And not to show fear before them you would stand your ground against two?"

"I am Cosian," he said.

"Now," I said to Marcus, "perhaps the victory of Cos is clearer to you."

"Yes," said Marcus.

"Under the circumstances," I said to the guardsman, "I would nonetheless recommend a discretionary withdrawal."

"No," said the man.

"We are prepared to permit it," I said.

"No," he said.

"No dishonor is involved in such a thing," I said.

"No," he said.

"You need not even make haste," I said.

"I do not fear you singly," he said.

"On guard," I said.

He immediately entered readiness.

"Stay back," I said to Marcus.

I had scarcely uttered my injunction to Marcus when, Phoebe screaming, the fellow lunged. Our blades met perhaps three times and I was under his guard. He drew back, shaken, white faced. Again we engaged and, again, in a moment, I was behind his guards. Again he drew back, this time staggering, off balance. "Aii," he wept and lunged again, and then, tripped, scrambling about, pressed back with my foot, was on his back, my sword at his throat. He looked up, wildly.

"Strike!" he said.

"Get up," I said. "Sheath your sword."

He staggered to his feet, watching me, and sheathed his sword. I then sheathed mine.

"Why did you not kill me?" he asked.

"I told you earlier," I said, "I had decided not to kill you."

"I am an expert swordsman," he said, looking at me.

"I agree," I said.

"I have never seen such speed, such subtlety," he said. "It is like defending oneself against wind, or lightning."

I did not respond to him. In a way I felt sad, and helpless. In many ways I was an average man, if that. too, I have many lacks, and many faults. How ironic then it was, I thought, that among the few gifts which I might possess, those few things which might distinguish me among other men, were such as are commonly associated with destructiveness. Of what value is it, I asked myself, to have certain talents. Of what dreadful value are such skills? Of what value, really, is it to be able to bring down a running man with the great bow at two hundred yards, to throw the quiva into a two-hort circle at twenty paces, to wield a sword with an agility others might bring to the handling of a knife? Of what use are such dreadful skills? Then I reminded myself that such skills are often of great use and that culture, with its glories of art, and music and literature, can flourish only within the perimeters of their employments. Perhaps there is then a role for the lonely fellows on the wall, for the border guards, for the garrisons of far-flung outposts, for the guardsmen in the city treading their lonely rounds. All these, too, in their humble, unnoticed way, serve. Without them the glory is not possible. Without them even their critics could not exist. "Are you all right?" I asked.

"Yes," he said.

I recalled, too, the games of war. They, too, in their awesomeness, must not be forgotten. Why is it that some men seek wars, traveling to the ends of the earth to find them? It is because they have a taste for such things. It is because there, where others fear to tread, they find themselves most alive. He who has been on the field of battle knows the misery, the terror, the tenseness, the racing of the blood, the pounding of the heart, the exhilaration, the meaningfulness. In what other arena, and for what lesser stakes, can so much of man be summoned forth, man with his brutality, his cruelty, his mercilessness, his ruthlessness, his terribleness, these ancient virtues, and man with his devotion, his camaraderie, his fellowship, his courage, his discipline, his glory? In what other endeavor is man, in his frailty and strength, in his terribleness and nobility, so fully manifested? What is the meaning of war to the warrior? Surely it is not merely to be found in the beholding of flaming cities and the treading of bloody fields. Surely it is not merely to be found in silver plate and golden vessels, nor even in women lying naked in their chains, huddled together, trembling in the mud, knowing that they are now properties and must please. It is rather, I think, primarily, the contest, and that for which all is risked, victory. To be sure, this is a war of warriors, not of technicians and engineers, a war of men, not of machines, not of explosives, not of microscopic allies, not of poisoned atmospheres, wars in which the tiny, numerous meek, in their swarms, crawling on six legs, will inherit the earth.

"You are not of Ar," said the guardsman.

"No," I said.

"I did not think so," he said.

I shrugged.

"Cos," he said, "can use blades such as yours."

"I seek employment," I said.