the end the capturer is so knocked about that he cries mercy, and Talbot sets the prisoner free without ransom, returning him his horse, armour, arms, and baggage which had been taken from him when he was captured. In 1599 this good sword of Talbot would appear to have been preserved in the Castle of Blaye, not very far from Castillon, where he was killed in battle in 1453, for Monsieur de Lussan, Governor of Blaye, being in England in that year and having business with Talbot's descendant, the Earl of Shrewsbury, offered to give it to him, but the French ambassador at the Court of St. James, Monsieur de Boissize, who had himself seen the sword at Blaye, getting wind of this, wrote to Henri IV's minister, Villeroi, advising that the King should order M. de Lussan to give the sword up to him as it was well worthy of a place in the King's cabinet, adding, here in England they show the cannon that they have taken from us, we might at least show the sword of Talbot.[1]
Readers of Rabelais will remember the thesis propounded by Panurge: "la braguette est première pièce de harnois pour armer l'homme de guerre," and the story of the Seigneur de Merville. He one day was trying on a new suit of armour in which to follow his King to the wars, as his old one was rusted and could no longer serve him, for of late years he had grown very fat. His wife, looking on in a contemplative mood, noticed that he was not armed with a braguette of plate, but only chain mail, so being especially wishful that no harm should come to him in so vital a part, she advised him to strap on a big jousting helmet that was lying useless in his closet.[2]
In one of Bandello's novels we get a glimpse into the life of a Mantuan sword-smith in the XVIth century, who sits up all night to finish a sword ordered by a rich French gentleman who was passing through the town and leaving next day, whilst his pretty wife . . . but I will refer the curious reader to Novel LIX, Part I, of this witty author for the rest of the tragic story.
Tomaso Garzoni, in a book written about 1580 concerning all the professions in the world, amongst which he counts bullies, hired assassins, swashbucklers, etc., gives us a vivid picture of the Venetian bravo of his day. On rising in the morning, he puts on his shirt of mail and over it his steel corselet, and with a steel skull-cap on his head, gauntlets or gloves of mail on his hands, a sword and a dagger by his side, a short arquibus slung in its leather pouch and its iron bullets in his breeches pockets, he strides forth from the house armed like a Saint George. He takes a turn up and down the Piazza, and with four fierce glances makes himself master of the whole place. Keeping his hand on the pommel of his sword and swinging it right and left, he causes the scabbard to strike against his muscular calves, making every one in the square look at him and exclaim: "See! what a piercer of mail! what a cruncher of iron! what a slayer of hundreds!"[3]
