The classic age of the swashbuckler might well be said to have begun with Weyman, who was ordained the greatest of the yellow '90s swashbuckling romancers. The book begins: When we reached the terraced walk, which my father made a little before his death, and which, running under the windows at the rear of the chateau, separates the house from the new lawn, St. Alais looked around with eyes of scarcely veiled contempt.