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- 3747
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:18.535Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 3692
- text
- spears of the Northern Lights charging over Greenland.
Fire from the flint is our Chevalier enraged. He takes umbrage at the
cut of some ship’s keel crossing his road; and straightway runs a tilt
at it; with one mad lounge thrusting his Andrea Ferrara clean through
and through; not seldom breaking it short off at the haft, like a bravo
leaving his poignard in the vitals of his foe.
In the case of the English ship Foxhound, the blade penetrated through
the most solid part of her hull, the bow; going completely through the
copper plates and timbers, and showing for several inches in the hold.
On the return of the ship to London, it was carefully sawn out; and,
imbedded in the original wood, like a fossil, is still preserved. But
this was a comparatively harmless onslaught of the valiant Chevalier.
With the Rousseau, of Nantucket, it fared worse. She was almost
mortally stabbed; her assailant withdrawing his blade. And it was only
by keeping the pumps clanging, that she managed to swim into a Tahitian
harbor, “heave down,” and have her wound dressed by a ship-surgeon with
tar and oakum. This ship I met with at sea, shortly after the disaster.
At what armory our Chevalier equips himself after one of his spiteful
tilting-matches, it would not be easy to say. But very hard for him, if
ever after he goes about in the lists, swordless and disarmed, at the
mercy of any caitiff shark he may meet.
Now, seeing that our fellow-voyagers, the little fish along-side, were
sorely tormented and thinned out by the incursions of a pertinacious
Chevalier, bent upon making a hearty breakfast out of them, I
determined to interfere in their behalf, and capture the enemy.
With shark-hook and line I succeeded, and brought my brave gentleman to
the deck. He made an emphatic landing; lashing the planks with his
sinewy tail; while a yard and a half in advance of his eyes, reached
forth his terrible blade.
As victor, I was entitled to the arms of the vanquished; so, quickly
dispatching him, and sawing off his Toledo, I bore it away for a
trophy. It was three-sided, slightly concave on each, like a bayonet;
and some three inches through at the base, it tapered from thence to a
point.
And though tempered not in Tagus or Guadalquiver, it yet revealed upon
its surface that wavy grain and watery fleckiness peculiar to tried
blades of Spain. It was an aromatic sword; like the ancient caliph’s,
giving out a peculiar musky odor by friction. But far different from
steel of Tagus or Damascus, it was inflexible as Crocket’s rifle tube;
no doubt, as deadly.
Long hung that rapier over the head of my hammock. Was it not storied
as the good trenchant blade of brave Bayard, that other chevalier? The
knight’s may have slain its scores, or fifties; but the weapon I
preserved had, doubtless, run through and riddled its thousands.
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