And when they've lost count of touches (Laertes thinks he had near twenty when the number slipped from his grasp), Laertes will sheathe his blade at last with a burst of laughter. His cheeks are apple-round and flushed like damask roses. He's sweating, shining, breath just a steamy plume on the cold air. "Sir," he says, "thou wilt soon overtake me with the rapier, and then I'll have no reputation at all."