There hung trophies
of arms of all sorts--a bewildering array of spiky stars like the
monstrous decorations on the breast of a Brobdingnagian diplomatist, of
guns and pistols of all ages and nationalities, of halberds, pikes, and
partisans, of curved scimitars, great two-handed swords, and long,
glittering rapiers, with precious hilts. There, too, were coats of chain
mail and great iron gauntlets, and rows of dinted helmets formed a
cornice round the gallery.
It was Dick's sanctuary, where, according to family tradition, he was
supposed to be immune from domestic attacks. Anyone, it is true, could
open the door and worry him from the threshold, but no one entered
without his invitation. Here he was master. Here he spent solitary hours
dreaming dreams, wrestling with devils, tying trout-flies, making up
medicines for his dogs, and polishing and arranging and rearranging his
armour and weapons. Until the furies got hold of him he was a simple
soul, content with simple things. The happiest times of his life had
been passed here among the inanimate objects which he loved, and here he
was now spending the hours of his greatest agony.
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