Title: Fortune
Author: Snaith, J. C. (John Collis)
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.

*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Fortune" ***


FORTUNE



  FORTUNE

  BY
  J. C. SNAITH
  AUTHOR OF “ARAMINTA,” “BROKE OF COVENDEN,” ETC.

  [Illustration]

  NEW YORK
  MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY
  1910



  Copyright, 1910, by
  MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY
  New York

  _All rights reserved_

  Published April, 1910

  THE QUINN & BODEN CO. PRESS
  RAHWAY, N. J.



CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                                           PAGE

        I. OF MY JOURNEY TO THE PLAIN                                  3

       II. OF AN INN. OF A MAN FROM FOREIGN PARTS                     12

      III. OF THE EATING OF MEAT                                      25

       IV. OF FURTHER PASSAGES AT THE INN                             33

        V. I HEAR OF THE PRINCESS                                     41

       VI. OF A PRIVATE BRAWL. I TAKE PROFIT AT THE COST OF
             REPUTATION                                               54

      VII. OF THE DISABILITIES THAT ATTEND ON GENTLE BIRTH            64

     VIII. OF A GREAT CALAMITY                                        78

       IX. OF OUR ROAD TO THE SOUTH                                   92

        X. OF OUR COMING TO THE DUKE OF MONTESINA AND HIS HOUSE
             UPON THE HILL                                           101

       XI. OF A GRIEVOUS HAP                                         116

      XII. OF ADVERSITY. OF A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE OF A FAIR
             STRANGER                                                125

     XIII. OF OUR ENTRANCE INTO A NEW SERVICE                        136

      XIV. OF THE JOURNEYING BACK TO THE HOUSE OF MY REJECTION       144

       XV. OF SOME FROWARD PASSAGES BEFORE THE DUKE                  159

      XVI. OF THE GRIEVOUS MISHANDLING OF HIS LORDSHIP’S GRACE       171

     XVII. OF OUR ATTENDANCE IN COUNCIL UPON A GREAT MATTER          187

    XVIII. OF THE AMBASSADOR OF THE RUDE CASTILIAN PRINCE            194

      XIX. OF MADAM’S EMBASSY TO HER NEPHEW FRANCE                   204

       XX. OF OUR ROAD TO PARIS                                      213

      XXI. OF OUR FIRST PASSAGES WITH THE CASTILIAN                  221

     XXII. WE ARE HARD BESET                                         226

    XXIII. OF THE COUNT OF NULLEPART’S EXTREMITY                     232

     XXIV. OF SIR RICHARD PENDRAGON’S PASSAGES WITH THE GENTLEMEN
             OF THE KING’S GUARD                                     250

      XXV. OF SIR RICHARD PENDRAGON’S DUELLO WITH THE GALLANT
             FRENCHMAN                                               255

     XXVI. OF OUR APPEARANCE AT THE LOUVRE BEFORE KING LOUIS         263

    XXVII. OF OUR AUDIENCE OF THE MOST CHRISTIAN KING                275

   XXVIII. OF FURTHER PASSAGES IN THE LOUVRE AT PARIS                281

     XXIX. SIR RICHARD PENDRAGON’S STRATEGY                          291

      XXX. OF OUR ADVENTURES AMONG THE CASTILIAN HOST                301

     XXXI. OF AN ASTOUNDING EPISODE                                  307

    XXXII. OF THE UNHAPPY SITUATION OF A GREAT PRINCE                313

   XXXIII. A SORTIE FROM THE CASTLE                                  326

    XXXIV. OF MADAM’S RENCOUNTER WITH THE FROWARD PRINCE             330

     XXXV. OF SIR RICHARD PENDRAGON’S RETURN                         338

    XXXVI. OF SOLPESIUS MUS, THE CAPTAIN-GENERAL OF THE JOGALONES    344

   XXXVII. OF THE RIGOURS TO BE SUFFERED BY THE INFAMOUS KING        349

  XXXVIII. THE LAST                                                  357



FORTUNE



FORTUNE



CHAPTER I

OF MY JOURNEY TO THE PLAIN


AS I left the place of my birth and long abiding and took the road
to that far country where I thought my fortune lay, the sun already
had a countenance. It was shining on the chestnut trees; on the tall
white walls of the house of justice at the corner of the square; on
the worthy priest who was sprinkling holy water on the steps of the
monastery of the Bleeding Heart to suppress the dust, to keep away
the flies, and to consecrate the building; and especially on the only
bailiff that our town could boast, whose salary fluctuated with the
thieves he captured. He, honest fellow, had driven so poor a trade of
late that he crept along in his winter coat, seeking the shade of trees
and houses.

Even at this time some portion of philosophy had gone to the increase
of my mind, a habit which sprang, I think, from my mother’s family--her
brother Nicolas was a clerk of Salamanca and wore a purple gown. So
when it fell to consider two such matters as the dearth of rogues and
the sun’s majestic clemency it found a pleasant argument. I had yet to
adventure half a league into the world, but unless my eyes were false,
the place I had vowed to win was fair and full of virtue. Having such
thoughts I rejoiced exceedingly. Thus I checked my horse a moment and,
lifting up my eyes to heaven, was fain to salute the morning.

However, as I made to pursue my way, glowing with the generosity of
my youth, my gaze was diverted by a thing of pity. It was an old poor
woman sitting beside a door. She was thin and feeble. Her cheeks were
hollow, there was no lustre in her glance, her mouth had not a tooth;
but her face was such that I felt unable to pass her by. My father had
an adage pertinent to her case. “Be kind to the poor,” said the first
of mankind, “and if you are not the happiest man in Spain, it is a
conspiracy of Fortune’s.”

As I approached this aged creature I saw she had an eye which seemed
to ask an alms yet did disdain it; and this war of pride and necessity
in a poor beggar woman, halt and lean, led me to consider that she was
not of the common sort, but had had a birth perhaps, and upon a day
had known the cushions of prosperity. And this fancy moved my heart
indeed, for in my view there is no more pitiful sight in nature than a
blood Arab so broken in his wind and circumstances as to be condemned
to base employments. There were only ten crowns in my purse, but its
strings were untied before I could consider of my private need. Bowing
to her as solemnly as if she had been the daughter of a marquis--and
who shall say that she was not?--I begged her to accept a tenth part of
my inheritance.

She received this invitation with those shy eyes that so much enhance
her sex; while such confusion overcame the gentle soul that a minute
passed before her faltering hand could draw a coin from the bag I held
before her.

I went on my way with no more than nine crowns in my possession. Now,
it is no light thing, believe me, reader, for a youth of one-and-twenty
to adventure into an unknown country, upon a quest of fortune on a
mountain horse, in the company of a sword of an ancient pattern, a
leather jerkin laced with steel, a hat without a feather, and the sum
of nine crowns, neither more nor less, for the whole of his estate.

I had set the nose of Babieca in the direction of the south. At first
my way was taken through a pleasant country of great hills, that had
cork trees on their slopes. Here and there little rivers ran in and
out; sparkling in the morning sun; shining on the side of some tall
mountain; circling round the foot of some grave precipice. But as the
morning passed, and as hour by hour I went farther from my native
hills, the nature of the land was changed. The cool woods and streams,
the rich green pastures, and the fine tall hills with their garlands of
dark forests yielded to a barren plain, to which, alas! there appeared
to be no end. It was bare and arid, and strewn in many places with
sharp rocks. There was not a tree, not a stream of water; and such
horrid quantities of sand consumed it that it became at last a desert
whose life was sterile. A few barren shrubs were the only things that
grew there; and, as I was soon to learn, an infinite degree of misery.

All this time the sun was rising in the sky, and when about the hour of
noon it began to beat from a naked heaven whose face was brass, upon
the unsheltered plain, this wilderness grew so fierce and garish as
hardly to be borne. Mile upon mile I did assay and stoutly overcame;
but horizon succeeded to horizon, each so bright and quivering with
heat that the eye was afeared to meet it, each so bare, so flat, and
so like the one that was before, glaring sand on every side and torrid
fire everywhere, with never a prospect of shelter or abode, and so
small a hope of change, that at last I began to shrink from the path I
was determined on, and was even led to think this must be the high road
to eternity.

Even before noon my mouth was parched like a dust-pit. Thirst
shrivelled my tongue, but no spring was there to quench it; nor was
there a house to be seen. Indeed, the sun was become almost as cruel
as he was formerly gentle, sitting in heaven like a ball of fire, and
seeming to take pleasure from his pitiless descent on the coarse suit
of a sanguine colour of one Miguel Jesus Maria de Sarda y Boegas.
And to increase the evil of my case my person was now taken with a
pestilence of flies. These vindictive creatures bit my face and neck
so sharply that the vexation of my person spread into my mind; whereon
it rose to such a height against them as to provoke as round a fume of
swearing as that of any rapscallion of the towns. Perforce I had to
check this froward disposition in myself; for it is intolerable in one
who boasts that his fortitude shall overcome the world, to find himself
put out of countenance by the meanest insect in it.

It is no part of valour for a man to break and flee before an enemy,
but the sun was now so much against me that I was fain to seek a refuge
from him. Indeed, necessity was like to drive me to it all too soon,
for there was already a kind of sickness creeping in my brain. So a
little in the afternoon I saw through the fiery haze that trembled
above the plain, a piece of scrub that promised a retreat. I turned my
horse towards it with more alacrity than credit, though I am sure that
had Cæsar himself been mounted that afternoon on my patient Babieca he
must have acted even as did I, however the stoutness of his heart had
cried out on the weakness of his nature.

I led Babieca into as much shade as I could devise, tied him to a bush,
and crawled under it with my unlucky brains. While taking refuge here
I had a fall in fortune. You will conceive, O admirable reader! that
the sun, this false friend in whom I had reposed my trust, having dealt
with me in this false spirit, there was no longer that poetry in my
temper with which I had begun my journey. I was beset with doubts. If a
face so bright, so open, so intelligible could hide such malice, where
was the candour of the world? By this pertinent reflection my thoughts
were carried to the poor woman who had also shared my trust. Perchance
it was not the part of wisdom to bestow the tenth portion of my
inheritance upon a beggar in the road. Sorely considering this aspect
of the case I took forth my pouch, and pouring my little means into my
hand, not without a pang that one palm could hold it all, behold! in
lieu of nine crowns I discovered that I had but eight.

Now, I was never afraid to believe that if a man hold a low opinion of
his kind, and looks upon them in a spirit of askance, such a one is
fit for no nice company, since he merits no more consideration than he
is willing to bestow. But to find that my trust had been abused so
wickedly gravelled me altogether. I could have wept for the petty trick
and cried out upon the world. Nor would I have you to consider that it
was a piece of lucre that led me to this mind. It was the plausibility,
the cold ingratitude that pricked me like a dagger. I had hoped to
carry upon my pilgrimage that good faith towards my fellows that my
noble father had bade me entertain. It was to be my solace and my
watchword. As I rode forth the zephyrs of the morning were to breathe
it in my ears; at night I was to lie down in its security underneath
the stars. “Man is a thing so excellent that this peerless world was
made for his demesne.” Thus Don Ygnacio, and he was threescore years
and seven when he perished of the stone. Was the seed of that true
caballero to renounce a wisdom so mature because of a blow received by
misadventure?

Some hours I lay in security, for I was in mortal fear of the ball of
fire above my head. By a good chance I had placed a luncheon of rye
bread and a piece of cheese made of goat’s milk in my wallet. This
I munched with discretion, for there was never a house to be seen,
and this uninhabited plain appeared to stretch many miles. There was
no spring at which to allay my thirst, and during long hours I was
tormented dreadfully. My tongue and throat were blistered by the heat
that arose from the burning sand. Bitterly did I lament that I had not
had the wisdom to strap a skin of water to my saddle.

By the time the fury of the sun had grown somewhat less my head had
recovered of its stroke, and I got upon my road. Nor was it in any
bitterness of spirit that I went, for I had taken a solace from my
meditations which reconciled me to the rape of my patrimony. It should
call for more than a single mischance to break my faith in my brothers
of the mountains and my cousins of the plains. Many a weary mile did I
make ere the sun went down and a little pity for the wayfarer entered
the firmament. My eyes did ache with the glare of the burning yellow
ground; my body was sorely painful with the fatigues of travel; and
when at last the sun was gone and the night and its stars appeared
I gazed anxiously on every hand for the sign of some habitation to
which I might commit my distress. But there was never a poor inn nor a
swineherd’s hut to be seen in all this wilderness.

The night found me greatly doubtful of my way. I kept Babieca’s head
as fair to the south as I could reckon, but in the faint light of the
stars a true course was difficult to point. Nor was it without its
dangers, for the road was of a wretched nature. It was strewn with
sharp-pointed boulders, sand, stunted grasses, and was full of holes.
Whither it led I did not know. But I had been told, or perhaps had
dreamt, that many famous cities lay before me buried in the mists
of night. They were marked in my imagination as the homes of every
splendid enterprise, of every fortunate endeavour; and beyond all else,
of the fairest peoples of the fairest countries of the world.

It was very dark, but soon I saw these cities stretching out before
me in the night. They were truly delectable to see; fair places all,
with the morning beams upon a crowd of palaces, castles of a noble
situation, large, white, and lofty churches built of stone, and a
company of ships. I saw the sea, which was only known to me by rumour,
that broad highway to the Indies and other foreign lands where fame and
riches wait on boldness and can be picked like acorns from beneath the
trees. I saw the waves, a dark yet radiant azure, which were said to
ride a thousand galleons, filled with men of valour. I could see their
friends upon the beach waving their farewells. And I know not what
emotion then swept over me, for no sooner did I observe the people in
this fantasy than I remembered I had not a friend in all the world save
Babieca, patient ambler and poor mountain creature that he was, and he
was dumb like the stones upon the road. I felt the tears rising in my
heart, and though I fought against them they were stubborn rebels not
easy to suppress. For I cannot say with what intensity I longed at this
dark hour for one glance from the eyes of him who was alive but a week
ago.

My way was very lonely then, having strayed remote into a distant
country. And very lonely was my heart; yet to those who will overpass
my boldness I will confide it faltered not in resolution and therefore
was not cold. For through all the long season of his adversity my
father had maintained: “Courage is a living fire in a winter’s night.”
Thus when the evening winds arose and chilled my body I pressed on,
though I knew not whither, and had no thought of return. Hours came
and hours went, and I had a great despair of sanctuary for myself and
willing beast; and I had such a languor that it was no virtue of my own
that held the reins. My belly was as bare as was this wilderness, yet
my heart was fixed against complaint. I pressed forward stubbornly
until at last Babieca began to stumble at every yard he took.

Upon that both of us came to one mind. We could go no farther. I was
seeking for a tree whose branches might afford some protection from the
shrewd airs of the night, and in such a desert a tree was hard to find,
when I thought I discerned a light a great way off. I cannot tell you,
reader, in what a tumult of hope I made towards this beacon. It showed
across the waste so faintly that at first it looked no more than the
ignis fatuus. Yet we had no other hope than this. Cheerful words to
the hapless Babieca and shaking of the reins persuaded the good beast
still to do his best. And presently these doubts were settled, for as
we pressed on towards our talisman we found it to proceed from a sort
of house. Thereupon I could have cried aloud for joy, in such a manner
had hunger, weariness, and solitude wrought upon the hardihood of my
resolves.

It was no easy task to find the place whence this light proceeded. And
when at last I was able to learn I uttered a cry of delight. For it was
an inn; a little inn and paltry, and yet the sweetest inn, I think, to
which a traveller ever brought his weariness.



CHAPTER II

OF AN INN. OF A MAN FROM FOREIGN PARTS


ON coming at last to the door I found this wayside inn to be of a mean
condition, but at least it had four walls to it, and therefore might
be called an inn. Such as it was it promised food and rest and the
society of man. Observing a stable to be near at hand I led Babieca to
it. A wretched hovel it was, yet it also had four walls of a sort and
therefore might be called a stable.

Although no one came out of the inn to receive me and a great air of
desolation was upon everything, I led Babieca within the hovel and
contrived to find him a place in which he might repose. After much
groping in the starlight--other light there was none--which came
through the holes in the mud walls I was able to scrape enough straw
together to form his bed. Also I was able to find him a supper of
rough fare. And in so doing I observed that this poor place was in the
occupation of a horse of a singular appearance. As well as I could
learn in the darkness this was a very tall, large-boned, and handsome
beast, sleek and highly fed. Near to it, hanging upon a nail in the
wall, was a saddle so massive of artifice and so rarely bedizened as
to indicate that both this piece of furniture and the beast that bore
it were in such a degree above the common sort as doubtless to be the
property of a lord. And this conclusion pleased me very well; for I
was glad to believe that one of his condition had lent his presence to
this mean place, because there is no need to tell you, gentle reader,
a man of birth needs one of a similar quality with whom to beguile his
leisure.

As I issued, however, from the stable and made to enter the inn I was
stayed at the door by a dismal rustic who proved to be the landlord.
His bearing was of such singular dejection and in his countenance was
such sore embarrassment as to make it clear that either a grievous
calamity had lately befallen him or that one was about to do so.

“I give you good evening, honest fellow. Have you seen a ghost?”

The dismal wight placed a finger to his lip.

“Hush, sir! hush, I pray you!” he whispered hoarsely.

“Nay, my good fellow, I hush for no man--that is, unless you have a
corpse in the house.”

“I have worse than a corpse in the house,” said the innkeeper, crossing
himself.

“Worse than a corpse?”

“Yes, kind gentleman, a thousand times worse! How shall I speak it? I
have the Devil.”

The innkeeper made a piteous groan.

“I can hardly believe that,” said I. “He is not often seen in Spain
nowadays.”

“Yes, it’s the Devil right enough,” said the innkeeper, wiping his eyes
on the sleeve of his jerkin. “I am a ruined man.”

“How does he seem in appearance? Are there horns on his head and does
fire proceed out of his mouth?”

“He has an eye,” said the innkeeper.

In spite of my incredulity I could not help shivering a little.

“The evil eye, your worship, the mal d’ojo. And he is so enormous! When
he rises from his stool his head goes into the roof.”

“Peace, honest fellow,” I said stoutly. “The age of monsters is
overpast.”

“Ojala!” wailed the innkeeper, “your worship is in the wrong entirely.
You can form no conception of what a fiend is this.”

“There have been no monsters in Spain since the time of the Cid,” said
I, placing my hand on my sword.

“I tell you this is the fiend,” said the innkeeper vehemently. “He is
hugeous, gigantical; and when he cools his porridge he snorts like a
horse. Three weeks has he lain upon me like the pestilence. He has
picked my larder bare, and swears by his beard he’ll treat my bones the
same if I do not use him like an emperor. He has poured all the choice
red wine out of my skins into his thrice cursed one. He outs his bilbo
if a man so much as looks upon him twice. All my custom is scattered
to the wind. _Me hace volver loco!_ His mouth is packed with barbarous
expressions. And he has an eye.”

In spite of my father’s sword and the natural resolution that goes with
my name and province the strange excitement of the landlord made me
thrill all over.

“It is the eye of the fiend,” he said. “It glows red like a coal; it is
hungry like a vulture’s, fierce like a wolf’s. And then his voice--it
is like an earthquake in the mountains. Oh, your worship, it is Lucifer
in person who has come to comb my hair!”

I reproved the poor rustic for this levity.

“Nay, your worship, I speak the truth,” he said miserably. “The good
God knows it is so. I am a ruined man. The Devil has lain three weeks
in my house, yet I have not received a cuarto for his maintenance. A
lion could not be so ravenous. He has devoured lean meat, fat meat, not
to mention goodly vegetable. He has drunk wine enough to rot his soul.
Ten men together could not use their fangs like he and roar so loud,
yet I assure your worship I have not received so much as a cuarto.”

“This matter is certainly grievous,” said I. “Is there nothing you can
do to get this person out of your house?”

“Nothing, nothing,” said the innkeeper miserably. “Why, sir, I offered
him the whole of the profits I made last year--no less than the sum
of ten crowns--to go away from my inn before ruin had come upon me.
He took my money, and said he would bring his mind to bear upon the
subject.”

“Was your course a wise one?”

“It may have been wise, your worship, and yet it may not. For upon
bringing his mind to bear upon the subject, he said he had decided to
curtail his visit by ten days; but as he is lying upon me still, it
appears uncommonly like it that honest Pedro has had dealings with a
villain.”

“That is as may be,” said I; “but the good Don Ygnacio de Sarda y
Boegas, who died a week ago of the stone, would have no man judged
harshly until his conduct had been carefully weighed.”

“If Don Ygnacio was as good as you say, I expect he never had the Devil
in person cooling his porridge at the side of his chimney.”

“No, by my faith. But are you not calling this unlucky individual out
of his true character?”

“Well, your worship, it is like this, do you see,” said the innkeeper
humbly; “poor Pedro once had the misfortune to steal a horse.”

“You stole a horse, and yet you were not hanged!”

“No, your worship; they hanged my poor son in error. But perchance, if
I unload my breast of this misfortune, it may please the Virgin Mary to
lessen my afflictions.”

“If you are a wise man you will also burn a candle or two. But,
innkeeper, I will enter this venta of yours and speak with your guest,
whoever he may be. For myself, I don’t put much faith in the black
arts.”

I confess that our discussion of these unnatural affairs had provoked
strange feelings. But I spoke as boldly as I could, and laid my hand on
the hilt of my sword with so much determination that the poor wight of
an innkeeper fell into a violent trembling.

“Oh no, your worship,” he cried; “I would have you go upon your road.
He is so prompt to violence that he will certainly slay you if you so
much as show him your eyes.”

“That is as may be,” said I, taking a tighter grip upon my sword.

“Oh, your worship,” said the innkeeper, “I pray you use him tenderly.
I beseech you be gentle of your discourse. He would pare the nails of
the Cid. He fills the world with woes as easily as a she-ass fills a
house with fleas.”

“You must obey me, innkeeper,” I said sternly, but without anger I
hope, for the state of the poor fellow’s mind had moved me to pity.
“You must remember that a caballero of my province is afeared only of
God.”

The unlucky wight, finding that I was not to be gainsaid, led the way,
with many misgivings, into his squalid house.

There was only one apartment for the service of guests. It was a poor
one enough, with hardly anything in it except the lice on the walls and
three candles which burned dismally. Such a hovel was only fit for the
entertainment of pigs, cows, and chickens; yet it was not its quality
that first awoke my attention. Neither was it the extremely singular
personage that was seated at the side of the fire.

It was the delicious smell of cookery that filled the whole place. This
proceeded out of a great seething pot that hung in the chimney. To one
who had travelled all day nothing could have been more delectable. At
its sight and odour my hunger began to protest fiercely, for my last
piece of victual had been eaten at noon.

Seated on a low stool, as near to the pot as he might venture without
being scorched in the legs, I found the author of these grievances.
His gaze was riveted upon this delicious kettle. His enormous limbs
were outstretched across the hearth, a rare cup of liquor was beside
his stool, and so earnestly was he gazing at the meat as it tossed and
hissed in the cauldron that upon my entrance he did not stir, but,
without so much as removing his chin from his hands, continued in his
occupation with an air of approval and expectancy.

For myself, I honoured him with a long and grave look. Since that
distant evening in my youth I have met with many chances and adventures
in my travels. I have fallen in with persons of all kinds--the
virtuous, the wicked, and those who are neither one nor the other. I
have broken bread with princes, philosophers, rogues, slaves, and men
of the sword--men of all nations and of every variety of fortune-yet I
believe never one so remarkable as he who now kept the chimney of this
wretched venta upon a three-legged stool. The length of his limbs was
extraordinary; his shoulders were those of a giant; and even in his
present careless and recumbent attitude he wore an uncommonly sinister
and formidable look.

His dress at one time would scarcely have come amiss to a prince, yet
now it was barely redeemed from that of a beggar. The original colour
of his doublet, which hung in tatters, was an orange tawny, but it was
now so soiled and rent that it could have stood for any hue one cared
to name. His cloak, which hung upon the wall, was of a bright blue
camlet, and was but little superior to the condition of his doublet.
Purple silk had once formed the substance of his hose, but now the
better part of it was cloth, having suffered many patchings with that
material. Added to such conspicuous marks of indigence, his long yellow
riding boots were split in pieces, one even revealed the toe of a
worsted stocking; whilst his scabbard was in such case as it sprawled
on the ground beside his leg that the naked point was visible.

When I came near and fell to regard him the better, he did me the
honour to lift his left eye off the cooking-pot. He proceeded to
stare at me in a manner of the most lazy indifference, and yet of the
greatest insolence imaginable. Then, without saying a word, he yawned
in my face and turned the whole of his attention again to the kettle.

Such a piece of sauciness made me feel angry. Had I been a dog I
could not have been met with less civility. My hand went again to the
hilt of my sword as I took a closer view of his visage. It was as red
as borracho, shining with cunning and the love of the cup. But it
was the eye he had fixed upon me that gave me the most concern. The
poor innkeeper was right when he spoke of his eye. It was as rude as
a tiger’s, and animated with such a hungry look that it might have
belonged to a dragon who desired to know what sort of meal stood before
him.

Though I might be in doubt as to what was his station, whether it was
that of a lord or a mendicant, since his assemblance suggested that he
partook of both these conditions, I had no doubt at all that he was not
a Spanish gentleman--for where should you find a caballero of our most
courteous nation who would so soil his manners as to treat a stranger
with this degree of impudency? Yet there was a great air of possession
about him as he sat his stool, as though every stick and rafter of the
inn was his own private furniture, so that I almost felt that I was
intruding within his castle. There was, again, that insolence in his
looks as clearly implied that it was his habit to command a deal of
consideration from the world; and as a lord is a lord in every land,
whether he happen to be a Spaniard or a German Goth, I opened, like a
skirmisher, in the lightest manner, not to provoke offence, for I trust
that Miguel Jesus Maria de Sarda y Boegas has ever too much respect for
his forebears to humiliate a man of birth.

“I give the greeting of God to your excellency,” I began, uncloaking
myself and bowing low, as became a hidalgo of my nation.

The occupant of the stool made no sign that I had addressed him, except
that he spat in the fire.

“May it please you, sir--a thousand pardons,” said I; “but I have heard
a tale of you from the keeper of this inn that never did consist with
gallantry. And may I pray you to have it rectified, for the poor fellow
is sorely afflicted in his understanding.”

At this address the occupant of the stool took his left eye off the
cooking-pot for the second time, and fixed it upon me slowly and
mockingly, and said in a rude, foreign accent that was an offence to my
ears,

“Yes, my son, pray me by all means; or shrive me, or baptize me, or do
with me just as you please. I have grown old in the service of virtue,
yet perhaps I ought to mention that I have not so much as the price of
a pot of small ale in my poke.”

“By your leave, sir, you are upon some misapprehension,” said I. “It is
not your money that I crave, but your civility.”

“Civility, my son. Well, I dare say I can arrange for as much of that
as you require.”

“It is pleasing to know that, sir. But this innkeeper--unhappy
man--does not appear to have partaken of it.”

The occupant of the stool took my remonstrance in fairer part than
there was reason to expect. Indeed he even abated his manners into some
appearance of politeness.

“You appear to judge shrewdly for one of your years, my young
companion,” he said, in a voice that fell quite soft. “But if I must
speak the truth, this innkeeper is a notorious villain; and if I am
ever civil to a notorious villain, I hope Heaven will correct me.”

“Even upon such a matter as that, sir,” I said gravely, “there may be
two sorts of opinion. Even if this poor innkeeper is not so virtuous as
he might be, it will not help him on the true path to be mulcted in his
substance.”

“By cock!” said the occupant of the stool, “it is an old head you wear
on your shoulders, my young companion. You speak to a point. I can tell
you have been to college.”

“Sir, you are mistaken in this, although I come of a good family upon
the side of both my parents. My uncle Nicolas is magister in the
university of Salamanca; and as for my father, lately deceased, he was
one of the wisest men that ever lived.”

“Yes, I can see that,” said the occupant of the stool, whose voice had
fallen softer than ever. “It is as plain as my hand.”

Somewhat curiously, and perhaps with a little of the vanity of youth, I
sought a reason for this estimate.

“It is as plain as the gown of a woman of virtue,” he said, with a
stealthy down-looking glance. “I have a wonderful eye for merit. You
can never disguise birth and condition from one like myself. I am a
former clerk of Oxford, and my lineage is such that modesty forbids me
to name it before supper.”

“Oxford,” said I, taking this quaint, barbarous name upon my tongue
with pain. “Saving your presence, sir, what part of our great peninsula
is that? It sounds not unlike the province of Galicia, where I know the
dialect and the people are allowed to be a little uncivil.”

“Not too quickly, my son. The university of Oxford is about a day’s
journey from the centre of the world.”

“Then, sir, it must be somewhere in Castile.”

“Why Castile, my son?”

“Madrid is in the province of Castile, and that, I believe, is
generally reckoned to be the centre of the world.”

“My young companion, I sit corrected,” said the occupant of the stool,
with a humble air that went not at all well with his countenance.
“When I was young I was always taught that the centre of the world was
London; but I dare say the world has moved on a little since those
days.”

“London, sir!” said I; for here was another barbarous word I had never
heard before. “I pray you tell me in what part of our peninsula is
London.”

Instead of replying to this question, the occupant of the stool began
to purse his lips in an odd manner, and to rub his chin with his
forefinger.

“By my soul,” he said, “that is a plaguy odd question to address to an
English gentleman!”

“Doubtless it may be,” said I, “to one who has travelled much, and
knows our great peninsula from one end to the other; but I confess I
never left my native province before this morning.”

“Never left your province before this morning!” said this strange
person, laughing softly. “Is it conceivable? If you had kept it close
it would have required great wisdom to suspect it. Your mind has been
finely-trained, my young companion, and your air is so finished that I
should like to see it at the court of Sophy.”

I was fain to bow at so much civility. Yet he was laughing softly all
the while, and there was a covert look in his eye that I mistrusted.

“Would you say that I had been drinking,” said he, “if I declare to you
upon my honour that London never was in Spain at all?”

“I take it nowise amiss, sir; yet if London is no part of Spain I fail
to see how it can be the centre of the world.”

For the moment I feared this extraordinary man would fall from his
stool, so forcibly did his laughter ascend to the roof. I felt some
discomposure, for surely such an action was no part of courtesy.
Judging, however, that it is the first business of the polite to
refrain from outfacing the rude with their own manners, I gathered all
my patience and said, not without haughtiness, I fear: “Sir, are you
not from foreign parts?”

“Nay, my young son of the Spains, I am come to foreign parts, if that
is your question. I was born and bred in England; I am the natural
son of an English king; I have dwelt in England half my years; and
when I die my bones shall lie in England, for since the time of Uthyr
Pendragon, the respected progenitor of an English sovereign, no scion
of my name has left his bones to rot in a foreign climate.”

“England,” said I; “the land is as strange to me as far Cathay.”

It was in vain that I strove to recall what I had heard of this remote
island country. Yet, as I could recollect nothing whatever about it, I
was fain to believe that I had never heard of it at all.



CHAPTER III

OF THE EATING OF MEAT


NO sooner had I made this confession than this remarkable man uttered a
shout that filled the place like the report of a caliver.

“By my hand,” he cried, “what a nation! Have you ever heard of the
moon, my son?”

“Certainly, sir, I have heard of the moon.”

“Come now, he’s heard of the moon. How learned they are getting in this
cursed peninsula! This must be one of the clergy.”

“Yes, sir,” I said with sternness, for the sauciness of his look was
hard to condone; “I have heard of the moon continually; and under your
good favour I am willing to hear of this England of which you make
mention. Where may it be?”

“Well, to begin with, I could never learn that it was in Spain. Thereby
I have a predilection to my prayers, that I may reward heaven for its
good kindness.”

This incensed me greatly.

“It must be a barbarous land this England, if I may judge by what it
breeds,” was my rejoinder.

“Barbarous indeed,” said he. “There are more barbers in England than
there are honest men in this peninsula.”

“You misunderstand me, sir, I am afraid.”

“I hope I do misunderstand you, my son; for if I do not, it would
almost appear that you are a native of this damnable country.”

“Mother of Jesus!” I cried, “this is intolerable.”

Such a taunt was beyond my patience; and when I fell to consider
that he who applied it to my country, was native to a land in which
civilization had yet its work to do--I had now a recollection that
these English were a dreadful brawling people, a race of robbers who
sold their swords for gain, and overran the whole of Europe--I deemed
it proper to indulge a grievance against this foreigner whose demeanour
was so rude.

“Señor caballero, I fear I am under the necessity of having to correct
you.”

I laid my hand on my sword with a dignified gesture.

“By all means, young Hop-o’-my-Thumb.” His harsh voice sank into a most
remarkable cooing softness. “I am ever open to correction, as becomes a
good mother’s son who hath received it regularly.”

“Here, sir, and now,” I cried hotly, dragging my sword from its case.

While I had been speaking, the eyes of the barbarian had opened wider
and wider, till at the moment I showed him my steel he opened his
mouth and sent up such a peal of laughter to the hams, onions, and
lemons that lined the beams in the roof, as nearly provoked the poor
innkeeper, who all this time had taken care to keep behind me, to take
leave of his wits.

“Why, if this is not a giant-killer”--he pressed his hands to his ribs
and roared like a bull--“I am not a king’s son. By the lord Harry, what
a notable assemblance have we here! By cock, how he doth spread his
five feet nothing! If he had but a beard under his chin, he might break
an egg. And look you, he holds his point as staunchly as old harlequin
bears his wand in the Lord Mayor’s Show.”

“On guard, sir, immediately”--I advanced a step upon him--“before I run
you through the heart.”

Instead, however, of heeding my purpose, he continued to address most
immoderate roars to the roof, and his huge frame swayed on the stool
like a ship in distress.

“Why, there’s fierceness!” he roared. “The valiancy of the tempest in a
pouncet box. By my good soul, I have never seen anything so terrible,
unless it is a cricket sitting under a thorn with its ears spread, or a
squirrel casting for nuts in a scarce July. But here’s my hand, little
Jack Giant-killer. Do you hop upon it like a good thing; and I pray
you, Jacky, do not preen your feathers like a starling, else a fluxion
will mount in my brains and I shall spit blood.”

The enormous barbarian held his hand towards me, as though I were a
small bird with feathers, and he puckered up his mouth, as if he would
coax me to perch upon his forefinger. He kept gazing at me sideways,
and now and again would whisk away his face and break into laughter the
most unseemly.

I tapped the point of my sword on the floor in the instancy of anger.

“Feathers!” he cried. “By my good soul, they preen and bristle like the
back of a goose. Why I would like to wear your quills in my bonnet and
eat your grease in a pie.”

“I am afraid you do not apprehend, sir,” said I, striving to regain
my composure, “with whom you hold speech. My name is Sarda; and Don
Ygnacio, my illustrious father, both by descent and nurture was one of
the first of his native province of Asturias. His family have served
their country in a thousand ways, since the time of that Ruy Diaz whom
we call familiarly the Cid.”

“Is that so, good Don, is that really the case?” The Englishman averted
his countenance. “Then if you are the offshoot of such an illustrious
trunk, you must be nearly as full of high breeding as an elderly
bonaroba is full of dignity. Good Master Don What-do-you-call-yourself,
I pray you do not make me laugh; the best surgeons in the county of
Middlesex have warned me against flux of the brain and the spitting of
blood. All the most accomplished minds of a pretty good house have died
in that way.”

“Sir Englishman,” said I, “I grieve for this demeanour which you
display; but the last of our name must follow the practice of his
fathers. Your language is unseemly; it is to be regretted; the
misprisions you have urged against my country cannot go unmarked.”

“Oh, my young companion,” said he, striving to be grave, yet failing to
appear so, “I am persuaded I shall die a horribly incontinent death.”

With might and main he strove to behave more worthily. By taking
infinite pains he was able at last to compose his coarse red features,
bloated with the cup and stained by the sun, into an appearance of
respectfulness; but the moment I bespoke him down went his chin, his
enormous frame began to quiver, and forth came another roar that echoed
along the rafters like the discharge of an arquebuse.

Such conduct put me out of countenance completely. Although my
experience of the world was not such as to teach me how to meet it
becomingly, I was determined that it should not go free. I had a
passion to run him through the body, but this could not be done while
he continued to pay no regard to my sword. Yet, as he was impervious to
those methods of courtesy that were the pride of my race, I determined
to adopt a mode more extreme. I was about to deal him a blow in the
face with my hand, to bring him to a sense of his peril, when, like
a wise fellow, the innkeeper made a diversion. And this for the time
being changed the current of affairs.

He fished a ham from the cooking-pot, and laid it on a dish. No sooner
did the Englishman discover this meat to be set against his elbow than
out he whipped his dagger and fell upon it, being no more able to
contain his inclination than are the beasts that perish. Perforce, I
had to put up my sword and abide in patience until this barbarian had
quelled his appetite. But I had not reckoned well if I thought he would
do this easily. Never have I seen a man eat so rapidly, so grossly,
so extensively as this gigantical foreigner. At last came a pause in
this employ, whereupon he regarded me with the grease shining about his
chaps.

“Why, good Don,” said he, “you look a little sharp yourself. You have
travelled overlong upon your emptiness, or I am a rogue. You shouldn’t
do it, my son, you shouldn’t do it. Always be courteous to the belly,
and you will find her docile. Neglect her, good Don, and you will find
her a jade. Landlord, will you have the goodness to bring a platter for
our friend of the feathers, or must I be put to the trouble of fixing
the point of my dagger into your filthy Iberian skin?”

The innkeeper, who appeared to have no desire to place the Englishman
to this necessity, was mightily prompt in his obedience. Also, he
fished a second ham out of the kettle, from which the Englishman cut a
great portion, laid it on his own platter, and gave over the remainder
to me.

“There is a marrow-bone to suck,” said he. “’Tis the sweetest luxury,
that and a drop of sherris.”

Almost overcome with the pangs of hunger as I was, nothing was further
from my intention than to accept a courtesy at these rude hands. Yet,
after all, continence has a poor sort of virtue in the presence of a
mistress of such despotic powers. Before I was aware that I had so much
as taken the delicious platter into my keeping, I was conveying sweet
smoking morsels into my mouth. And as the propitiation of so imperious
a creature is at all times a delightful exercise, I had scarce felt
my teeth in the delectable pig than I forgot my feud against the
Englishman. Also I forgot my disgust at the manner of his feeding; for
so choice were these dainty morsels that, after all, I considered it
were better not to judge him harshly, as, perhaps, his methods were
less unworthy than they seemed. And he, having dealt faithfully with
his second ham, and having called for a pint of sherry in a voice like
a trumpet, ere I was half upon my course, proceeded to smile upon my
dealings with the marrow-bone in a fashion that can only be described
as brotherly.

“He who stands not true to the trencher is a poor shot,” he said with a
most encouraging smile. “A brave demeanour at meals is as necessary to
the blood, the assemblance and the superstructure of man, as is piety,
good principles, and contemplation to the soul. Therefore, eat away, my
good little Don Spaniardo, and I pray you to forget that I am present.
If my own poor courage could in anywise compare with yours I should be
as near to perfection as is woman to deceit. Small in circumference
thou art, fair shrew, but thou art a beautiful champer, and a notorious
lover of flesh. How wouldst thou esteem a salad, my son, of the brains
of a Jew, as Sir Purchas of my name, and worthy kinsman, always yearned
for and so seldom obtained? He was a man if you please, and notoriously
fine at his meals. I never heard of a man who was better before a
leg of mutton with caper sauce; and he drank canaries until the very
hour they came to measure him for his shell. How rarely do you find a
great nature disrespectful to its knife and its nuncheon. Modesty in
the presence of flesh meat is a menace to virtue. But for that I must
have been twice the man that I am. Ha! my son, give my old pluck such
bravery and I would pawn my pedigree and be a slave, for a liberal
stomach is no friend to displeasure.”

“Yet, good Englishman,” said I, with a touch, I fear, of our northern
slyness, “you seem to do pretty well.”

“Pretty well!” He sighed heavily. “Pretty well is pretty well; pretty
well is neither here nor there. Landlord, bring me this minute a bite
of cheese, about so big as the knee of a bee; and further, landlord,
another cup of this abominable sherris, or by this hand I will cut your
throat, as I am the son of a sainted Christian lady.”

To lend point to this drastic utterance, the Englishman scowled like
a fiend and drew his sword. This weapon, like everything about him,
was of a monstrous character, and he stuck it in the ground beside his
stool.



CHAPTER IV

OF FURTHER PASSAGES AT THE INN


UPON this action, the innkeeper came forward fearfully, for he felt
that destruction threatened. When he had replenished the cup of his
remarkable guest, I was fain to observe its curious nature. Its mouth
was as wide as a bowl; and as the body which contained the wine was
in a right proportion to the rim, it had rather the appearance of a
pancheon than a cup of sherry. It was cast in silver, was gorgeously
chased, while its whole device was quaint and ingenious. Indeed, I
marvelled how one so poor as this innkeeper should have an article of
so much worth and beauty in his possession.

After the Englishman had fitted his mouth to the rim for so long a
period that he must have come near to looking upon the bottom, he gave
back the cup to the innkeeper, and ordered it to be refilled. It was
then handed to me, and I was invited to drink.

“That is if you can,” said he. “It is such a damnable liquor that
personally I hardly durst touch it. But I suspect your stomach is not
so proud as mine, you strong-toothed rogue. You see, we English are a
most delicate people.”

I drank a copious draught of the wine, which was excellent, or at least
my great thirst of the day had made it so. Then said the Englishman,
eyeing me with approval:

“Well, my young companion, and what do you think of the pot?”

“The pot is worthy of notice,” said I, examining its rare contexture.

“It has been admired in Europe, and it has been admired in Asia,” said
the Englishman. “That it merits attention I have been informed by
half the great world. For example, the Emperor Maximilian broached a
cask of Rhenish in its homage, and would, I doubt not, have fallen as
drunk as a Cossack, had it been possible for a great crowned person
to embrace these indecent courses. He offered me a thousand guilders
for that pot; but said I, ‘Honest Max’--I must tell you, Spaniard,
there is no crowned person of my acquaintancy for whom I entertain
a higher regard--‘honest Max,’ I said, ‘offer your old gossip the
Baltic ocean, the sun, the moon, and the most particular stars of
heaven, and that pot will still remain faithful to my house.’ ‘Why,
so, honest Dick?’ said the Emperor. ‘It is in this wise, my old bully
rook,’ said I, fetching him a buffet along the fifth rib with a
kindly cordiality, ‘that pot was given many years ago by the famous
Charlemagne to my kinsman, Sir Cadwallader Pendragon, for his conduct
upon the field of battle.’ ‘In that case, worthy Richard, friend of
my youth and beguiler of my maturity,’ said the Emperor, embracing
me with the greatest affection and filling my old sack cup with gold
dollars--all the dollars are gold in Turkey--‘I do not ask it of you;
let it remain an heirloom in your house.’ Therefore you will see at
once, good Spaniard, that this pot is in some sort historical. And in
all my travels I bear it at my saddle-bow; so whether I happen to lie
down with fleas in a villainous Spanish venta hard by to purgatory; or
whether I happen to sit at the right hand of potentates in England,
Germany, and France, I can take my sack as I like to take it--that is,
easily and copiously, with a proper freedom for the mouth, and with a
brim that’s wide enough to prevent the nose from tapping against the
sides.”

Curious as I had been from the first in regard to this strange
individual, the nature of his conversation rendered me more so. In
spite of his remarkable appearance, his costume might once have been
that of a person of condition, however lamentably it failed to be so
now; while his manners, although none of those of the great of my own
country, may yet have been accustomed to receive consideration from the
world. Therefore I said with a bow, “Good Sir Englishman, under your
worshipful indulgence I would make so bold as to ask your name.”

Such a request seemed to give him great pleasure.

“That is a very proper question,” said he, “for my name happens to be
one that has been favourably mentioned in every nation of the civilized
globe.”

“Yes, sir, I feel sure of it,” said I; for as he spoke his dignity grew
of the finest nature.

“You ask my name, good Spaniard; well now, what do you think of Richard
Pendragon for a name?”

“A truly fine name,” said I, being led to this statement by the love of
politeness, although I am not sure that I did not feel it to be a very
barbarous name after all.

“Sir Richard Pendragon, knight; yes, by my hand, that’s a name! I have
seen Goths and Arabs turn pale at it; it has been embraced by the
foremost in valour; it has lain in the bed of queens. Yet the bearer of
that name is gentle enough, by my soul; for it is the name of a good
and true man, a simple knight, a valiant friend, a courteous enemy; a
humble-minded seeker of light who is addicted to reading the stars and
the works of nature. I have seen the wearer of this most inimitable
name wipe the blood of a Barbary pirate off his sword with the hem of
his pourpoint, and sit down and write a ballad. I have never seen his
superior in female company. You may well ask my name, good Spaniard,
for, without making a boast, which I abhor, where shall you find such
performance united to such simplicity, such chaste austerity to such
constancy in love? I tell thee, Spaniard, had I not been nurtured in
humility, had I not been inducted to it by my sainted mother, even as
the young kid is taught to bleat by the reception of its milk, I must
have been a boaster, for I am of royal lineage, and the blood of kings
flows under my doublet.”

“Hombre de dios!” I cried excitedly, for my own brains seemed
overmounted by his enthusiasm, “you have indeed a great name. I would
love to hear of those kings of whom you appear to be such a worthy
descendant.”

“This is a proper curiosity, my honest youth. The name of my father
is no less than Edward of England. I am his son, but not his heir. If
every man walked according to his merit, the royal offspring that
bespeaks you would have the crown of Great Britain tilted upon his left
eyebrow at an angle of forty-five degrees.”

“For what reason have you not, sir, if you are indeed the king’s son
and the crown is yours in the course of nature?”

“There was a little irregularity connected with my birth, which
at the time of its occurrence I was not in a situation to adjust.
Thenceforward a race of knaves and formalists have taken the wall of
honest Dick, and have placed another upon the throne of England. But
mark me, my son, the hour will strike when one who has grown old in the
love of virtue will make good his estate, for he can show a line of
kings upon both sides of his family. Upon the side of his dam is one
Uthyr Pendragon, and of the seed of him sprang Arthur, who many years
ago was a sovereign lord of Britain. It was many years ago, I say, but
this Arthur was a good prince, a man of integrity, and his name is
still mentioned favourably in his native country.”

“When, sir, do you propose to make this attempt upon the throne of
England?”

At this question Sir Richard Pendragon assumed an air of magnificence,
which did not consort very well with the hole in his scabbard and the
condition of his hose and doublet.

“All in a good season,” he said majestically. “If not to-day it will
be to-morrow. The truth is the machinations of the wicked have left me
somewhat light in purse, and have also blown upon my reputation. But
I don’t doubt that some fair morning when the larks are singing, the
first-born son of a sainted mother, for all his misfortune and his
plaguy dry throat, will land at Dover and march to London city at the
head of twenty thousand Christian gentlemen who have sworn to redress
his injuries.”

“May I be one of so fair a company!” said I, feeling the spell of his
passion.

“Amen to that, honest youth.” He spoke superbly. “Give old honest
Dickon your hand upon it. There is no sort of doubt that I shall hold
you to a vow that does such honour to your nation and your character.
By the way, is that a ring I see upon your finger, honest youth?”

“It is an heirloom of my house,” said I. “It was given by my father to
my mother when he came to woo her.”

The Englishman raised his eyebrows with an aspect of grave interest.

“Was that so, my young companion? Given by your father to your
mother--was that really the case? And set with agates, unless my eyes
deceive me.”

“Yes, they are agates.”

“The sight of agates puts me in mind of a ring I had of my old friend,
the Sophy. I used always to affect it on the middle finger of the right
hand, just as you affect your own, my son, until it was coveted by my
sainted mother upon a wet Ash Wednesday.”

Still exhibiting the tokens of a lively regard, the Englishman began to
fondle the ring as it lay on my finger.

“An honest band of gold, of a very chaste device. It looks uncommonly
choice on the hand of a gentleman. Does it not fit somewhat loosely, my
young companion?”

Speaking thus, and before I could suspect his intention, Sir Richard
Pendragon drew the ring off my finger. He held it up to the light, and
proceeded to examine it with the nicest particularity.

“I observe it was made in Milan,” said he. “It must have lain for years
in a nobleman’s family. My own was fashioned in Baghdat, but I would
say this is almost as choice as the gift of the Sophy. And as I say, my
son, it certainly makes an uncommonly fine appearance on the hand of a
gentleman.”

Thereupon Sir Richard Pendragon pressed the slender band of metal upon
the large fat middle finger of his right hand.

“It comes on by no means so easy as the Sophy’s gift,” said he; “but
then, to be sure, my old gossip had a true circumference taken by the
court jeweller. I often think of that court jeweller, such an odd,
brisk little fellow as ’a was. ’A had a cast in the right eye, and I
remember that when he walked one leg went shorter than its neighbour.
But for all that ’a knew what an agate was, and his face was as open as
a fine evening in June.”

With an air of pleasantry that was impossible to resist, Sir Richard
passed his cup and exhorted me to drain it. I drank a little of the
wine, yet with some uneasiness, for it was sore to me that my father’s
talisman was upon the hand of a stranger.

“I shall thank you, sir, to restore the ring to my care.”

“With all the pleasure in life, my son.” The Englishman took hold of
his finger and gave it a mighty pull, but the ring did not yield.

He shook his head and began to whistle dolefully.

“Why, as I am a good Christian man this plaguy ring sticks to my hand
like a sick kitten to a warm hearthstone. Try it, my son, I pray you.”

I also took a pull at the ring, which was wedged so firmly upon his
hand, but it would not budge.

“This is indeed a terrible matter,” said Sir Richard Pendragon. “What
is to be done, young Spaniard?”

He called the innkeeper and bade him bring a bowl of cold water. Into
this he dipped his finger; and although he held it in the water for
quite a long time, the ring and his right hand could not be induced to
part company.

“What is the price you set upon this ring, my young companion?”

“The ring is beyond price--it was my mother’s--and has ever been in the
keeping of an ancient house.”

“If it is beyond price there is an end to the question. I was about to
offer you money, but I see you have one of those lofty spirits that can
brook no vulgar dross. Well, well, pride of birth is a good thing, and
money is but little. Yet one who has grown old in the love of virtue
would like to requite you in some way. Had we not better throw a main
with the dice? If I win I wear the ring for my lawful use; and if I
lose you shall have the good tuck that was given to me by the King of
Bavaria for helping him against the Dutch.”

I did not accept this suggestion, as you may believe. Yet it gave
me sore concern to see my father’s heirloom upon the hand of this
foreigner. In what fashion it was to be lured from his finger I was at
a loss to know; and in my inexperience of the world I did not know what
course to embrace.



CHAPTER V

I HEAR OF THE PRINCESS


UPON his own part Sir Richard Pendragon showed a wonderful calmness. He
wore the ring upon his finger with so great an air, and withal was so
polite that the forcing of a quarrel was put out of the question. None
the less it was clear that if ever I was to recover my father’s gift it
must be at the point of the sword.

It is always claimed, however, by the natives of my province, which
in the things of the mind is allowed to be the first in all Spain,
that a cool judgment must ride before violence. Therefore I was in no
haste to push the matter to an extremity. My mind was set that I could
only regain possession of the trinket by an appeal to the sword; that
soon or late we must submit ourselves to that arbitrament, but as the
night was yet in its youth, I felt there was no need to force the brawl
before its season. Thus, nursing my injury in secret I marked the man
narrowly as he sat his stool, with his hungry eyes forever trained upon
me sideways, and forever glancing down with furtive laughter, while his
great lean limbs in their patched, parti-coloured hose, in which the
weather had wrought various hues, were sprawled out towards the warmth
of the chimney.

As thus he lay it was hard to decide whether he was indeed a king’s
son or no more than a fluent-spoken adventurer. And in spite of the
flattering opinions he put forward of his own character, I was fain to
come to it that the latter conclusion was at least very near to the
truth. For one thing, the lack of seriousness in his demeanour did not
consort very well with the descendant of princes, whom all the world
knows to be grave men. He never so much as looked towards me without a
secret light of mirth in his eye; and this I was unable to account for,
as for myself I had never felt so grave.

“Sir Richard Pendragon, knight,” said he, for no particular reason,
unless it were the love of hearing his own discourse; “of all names
I believe that to be the most delectable; for it is the name of a
true man, of one addicted to contemplation, and of one who has grown
old in the love of virtue. Sir Richard Pendragon, knight--a name is
a small thing, but it has its natural music; Sir Richard Pendragon,
knight--yes, it runs off the tongue to a tune. I think, my young
companion, you have already admired it?”

“Indeed, sir, I have,” said I, with a certain measure of mockery, of
which, upon occasion, those of my province are said to be adept in the
use. “I conceive it to be a most wonderful name. Have you not said so
yourself?”

“If I have, I have,” said he, patting my shoulder with a familiarity
for which I did not thank him. “After all, the murder was obliged
to come out. Is it the part of valour to shun the truth? My young
companion, I feel sure you are one of those who respect that pious
opinion that is shared by P. Ovidius Naso and other learned
commentators upon the subject. Indeed, it is very well that a name
which stands so high in middle Europe is come into this outer part.
Quite recently I feared it to be otherwise. I met an itinerant priest,
not a month ago, bald, obese, and biblical, who said that to his mind
my name was deficient. ‘Fair sir, for what is it celebrated?’ was his
question. ‘For what is it celebrated, reverend one?’ was my rejoinder.
‘Why, where can you have lived these virtuous years of yours? It is
the name of a notorious pea-nut and straw-sucker.’ ‘That is verily a
singular accomplishment,’ said the reverend father in God. ‘Yes, your
reverence,’ I answered, ‘this old honest fellow can draw a nut through
a straw with the same complacency as a good churchman can draw sack
through the neck of a bottle.’ ‘That is indeed remarkable,’ said the
reverend father, and proceeded to demonstrate that as pea-nuts were
wide and straws were narrow, it was no light matter. ‘Yes, my father,’
said I, ‘that is a very just observation. But I am sure you would be
the last to believe that one who has a king’s blood flowing under his
doublet would bring his mind to anything trivial.’ ‘Doubtless your view
is the correct one,’ said the reverend sceptic, ‘but all the same, I
fail to see how a king’s blood would be able to compass a feat of that
nature.’ ‘There is none shall say what a king’s blood will compass,’
was my final rejoinder, ‘for there is a particular genius in it.’
Yet, my young son of the Spains, I have little doubt that the worthy
Dominican is still breaking his mind upon this problem behind the walls
of Mother Church; and such is the subtlety of these scholars with their
thumb rules and their logicality, that presently you shall find that
this innocent pleasantry has unhinged the brains of half the clerks in
Salamanca.”

“You have indeed a ready wit and a subtle contrivance, sir,” said I at
the conclusion of this ridiculous tale, for it was plain that he looked
for some such comment upon it.

“You must blame my nation for that. Every Englishman is witty when he
has taken wine; he is an especially bright dog in everything after
the drinking of beer. You dull rogues of the continent can form no
conception of an Englishman’s humour.”

“How comes it, sir, that you find yourself an exile from this land
which, by your account of it, is fair unspeakably?”

“It is a matter of fortune,” he made answer.

“Is that to say you are on a quest of fortune?” said I, breathing high
at this magic word.

“You have come to the truth,” said he with a sigh and a smile and a
sidelong look at the sword that hung by his leg.

“Why then, sir,” I cried with an eagerness I could not restrain, “we
are as brothers in this matter. I also am on a quest of fortune.”

My words seemed to jump with the humour of Sir Richard Pendragon. He
looked at me long and curiously, with that side glance which I did
not find altogether agreeable, stroked his beard as if sunk in deep
thought, and said with the gravest air I had heard him use,

“Oh, indeed, my son, is that the case! So you are on a quest of
fortune, are you, my son? Well, she is a nice, a proper, and a valiant
word.”

“My father was ever the first to allow it,” said I. “She used him ill;
his right hand was struck off in a battle at a tender age, but I never
heard him complain about her.”

“She hath ever been haughty and distant with old English Dick,” said
my companion, sighing heavily; “but you will never hear that true
mettle abuse the proud jade. Fortune,” he repeated and I saw his great
hungry eyes begin to kindle until they shone like rubies--“oh, what a
name is that! She is sweeter in the ears of us of England than is the
nightingale. What have we not adventured in thy name, thou perfect
one! Here is this Dick, this old red bully, with his dry throat and
his sharp ears and his readily watering eye, what hath he not dared
for thee, thou dear ungracious one! He has borne his point in every
land, from the wall of China to the high Caucasian mountains; from the
blessed isles of Britain to farthest Arabia. Who was it drove the Turk
out of Vienna with a six-foot pole? Who was it beat the Preux Chevalier
off his ground with a short sword? Who was it slew the sultan of the
Moriscoes with his own incomparable hand? Who was it, and wherefore was
it, my son?”

In this exaltation of his temper he peered at me with his side glance,
as though he would seek an answer to a question to which no answer was
necessary.

“Why do I handle,” he proceeded, “the sword, the broadsword, the short
sword, the sword and buckler, and above all that exquisite invention of
God, the nimble rapier of Ferrara steel, with the nice mastery of an
old honest blade, but in thy service, thou sweet baggage with thy moist
lip and thy enkindling eye?”

“Ah! Sir Englishman,” cried I, feeling, in spite of his rough brogue,
the music of his nature, “I love to hear you speak thus.”

“Thirty years have I been at the trade, good Spaniard, and sooner than
change it I would die. One hundred towns have I sacked; ten fortunes
have I plundered. But by sack they came, and by sack they did depart.
It is wonderful how a great nature has a love of sack. Yet I have but
my nose to show for my passion. Do you observe its prominent hue, which
by night is so luminous that it flames like a beacon to forewarn the
honest mariner? Yet to Fortune will we wet our beards, good Spaniard,
for we of England court her like a maiden with a dimple in her cheek.”

Having concluded this declamation, Sir Richard Pendragon called the
landlord in a tone like thunder, bade him bring a cup of sherry for my
use, and fill up his own, which was passing empty.

“I will bear the charges, lousy one,” said Sir Richard with great
magnificence.

“Oh yes, your worship”--the poor innkeeper was as pale as a
corpse--“but there is already such a score against your worship--”

“Score, you knave!” Sir Richard rolled his eyes horribly. “Why, if
I were not so gentle as a woman I would cut your throat. Score, you
dog! Then have you no true sense of delicacy? Now I would ask you,
you undershot ruffian with your bleared eyes and your soft chaps, are
gentlemen when they sit honouring their mistresses in their own private
tavern, are they to be crossed in their sentiments by the lowest order
of man? Produce me two pots of sack this minute, or by this hand I
will cut a gash in your neck.”

The unlucky wight had fled ere his guest had got half through this
speech, which even in my ears was frightful, with such roars of fury
was it given. When he returned with two more cups filled with wine, Sir
Richard looked towards me and laid his finger to the side of his nose,
as though to suggest that he yielded to no man in the handling of an
innkeeper.

By the time he had drunk this excellent liquor there came a sensible
change in the Englishman’s mien. The poetry of his mood, which had led
him to speak of Fortune in terms to kindle the soul, yielded to one
more fit for common affairs.

“Having lain in my castle,” said he, “and being well nourished with
sack, to-morrow I start on my travels again. Upon pressure I would not
mind taking a young squire.”

He favoured me with a look of a very searching character.

“I say,” he repeated solemnly, stretching out his enormous legs, “I am
minded to take a young squire.”

“In what, sir, would his duties consist?”

“They would be mild, good Don. Assuming that this young squire--if he
were a man of birth so much the better--paid me a hundred crowns a
year, cleaned my horse of a morning and conversed with me pleasantly in
the afternoon, I would undertake to teach him the world.”

“Why, sir,” said I, “surely it would be more fitting if your squire
received one hundred crowns from you annually, which might stand as his
emolument.”

“Emolument!” said the Englishman, stroking his beard. “One hundred
crowns! These be very quaint ideas.”

“Why, sir,” said I, with something of that perspicacity for which our
province is famous, “would not your squire have duties to perform, and
would they not be worthy of remuneration?”

“Duties!--remuneration!” said the Englishman, stroking his beard
furiously. “Why, can you not know, good Don, I am in the habit of
receiving a thousand guilders per annum for teaching the world to sons
of the nobility?”

“Indeed, sir! can a knowledge of the world be of so much worth?”

The Englishman roared at that which he took for my simplicity.

“By my soul!” he exclaimed, “a knowledge of the world is a most
desperate science. I have met many learned men in my travels, but that
science always beat them. Cæsar was a learned man, but he would have
had fewer holes in his doublet had he gone to school earlier. It is a
deep science, my son; it is the deepest science of all. What do you
know of deceit, my son, you who have never left your native mountains
before this morning? You, with the dust of your rustic province upon
your boots, what do you know of those who hold you in fair speaking
that they may know the better where to put the knife?”

“I confess, sir, I have thought but little of these things,” I said
humbly, for my misadventure with the beggar woman was still in my mind,
and my mother’s ring was no longer in the keeping of her only son.

“Then you will do well to think upon it, my young companion,” said the
Englishman, regarding me with his great red eyes. “You talk of fortune,
Spaniard, you who have yet to move ten leagues into the world! Why,
this is harebrained madness. You who have not even heard of the famous
city of London and the great English nation, might easily fall in with
a robber, or be most damnably cheated in a civil affair. Why, you who
say ‘if you please’ to an innkeeper might easily lose your purse.”

“I may be ill found in knowledge, sir, but I hope my sword is worthy,”
said I, determined that none should contemn my valour, even if my poor
mind was to be sneered at.

“Oh, so you hope your sword is worthy, do you now?” The Englishman
chuckled furiously as if moved by a conceit. “Well, Master No-Beard,
that is a good accomplishment to carry, and I suspect that you may find
it so one of these nights when there is no moon.”

All the same Sir Richard Pendragon continued to laugh in his dry
manner, and fell again to looking at me sideways. For my life I could
not see where was the occasion for so much levity.

“My father has taught me the use of the sword,” said I.

“Oh, so your father has taught you the use of the sword! Well, to judge
by the length of your beard, good Don, I am inclined to suspect that
your father had a worthy pupil.”

“I hope I may say so.”

“Oh, so you hope you may say so, my son! Well, now, I think you may
take it, good Don, from one who has grown old in the love of virtue,
that your father would know as much of the sword as a burgomaster knows
of phlebotomy. You see, having had his right hand struck off in battle
at a tender age, unless he happened to be a most infernally dexterous
fellow he forfeited his only means of becoming a learned practitioner.”

The Englishman laughed in his belly.

“My father had excellent precept,” said I, “although, as you say, the
Hand of God curtailed his practice.”

“Well now, my son,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, assuming a grave air,
which yet did not appear a very sincere one, “he who speaks you is one
whose practice the Hand of God has not curtailed. He was proficient
with sword and basket in his tenderest infancy. He has played with
all the first masters in Europe; he has made it a life study. With
all the true principles of this inimitable art he is familiar. He has
been complimented upon his talent and genius, natural and acquired, by
those whom modesty forbids him to name. And all these stores, my worthy
Don, of experience, ensample, and good wit are at your command for the
ridiculous sum of an hundred crowns.”

“I have not an hundred crowns in the world, sir,” I confessed with
reluctancy, for his arguments were masterful.

“By cock!” he snarled, “that is just as I suspected.”

There could be no mistaking the change in his demeanour when I made
this unhappy confession. It caused him to resolve his gross and rough
features into some form of contemplation. At last he said, with an eye
that was like a weasel’s,--

“What is the sum in your poke, good Spaniard?”

“I have but eight crowns.”

“Eight crowns! Why, to hear your conversation one would think you owned
a province.”

“A good sword, a devout heart, and the precepts of my noble father must
serve, sir, as my kingdom,” said I, hurt not a little at the remarkable
change that had come over him.

“I myself,” said he, “have always been governor and viceregent of
that kingdom, and had it not been for a love of canaries in my youth,
which in my middle years has yielded to a love of sherris, I must have
administered it well. But there is also this essential divergence in
our conditions, my son. I am one of bone and sinew, an Englishman,
therefore one of Nature’s first works; whereas you, good Don, saving
your worshipful presence, are but a mincing and turgid fellow, as thick
in the brains as a heifer, and as yellow in the complexion as a toad
under his belly. Your mind has been so depressed by provincial ideas,
and your stature so wizened by the sun, that to a liberal purview they
seem nowise superior to a maggot in a fig, or a blue-bottle fly in the
window of a village alehouse.”

“Sir Englishman,” said I haughtily, for since I had told him I had but
eight crowns in the world his manner of speaking had grown intolerable,
“I do not doubt that among your own nation you are a person of merit,
but it would not come amiss if you understood that you pay your
addresses to a hidalgo of Spain. And I must crave leave to assure
you that in his eyes one of your nation is but little superior to
a heathen Arab who is as black as a coal. At least, I have always
understood my father, God keep him! to say this.”

“By my faith, then,” said the Englishman, “even for a Spaniard your
father must have been very ill informed.”

“Sir Richard Pendragon,” said I sternly, “I would have you be wary of
the manner in which you mention my father.”

“I pray you, brother, do not make me laugh.” He trained his sidelong
look upon me. “I have such an immoderately nimble humour--it has ever
been the curse of my family from mother to daughter, from father to
son--as doth cause the blood to commit all manner of outrages upon mine
old head veins. All my ancestors died of a fluxion that did not die of
steel. But I tell you, Spaniard, it is as plain as my hand that your
father must have been a half-witted fellow to beget such a poor son.”

“Sir Richard Pendragon,” I cried, incensed beyond endurance, “if you
abuse my father I will run you through the heart!”

“Well,” said he, “this is good speaking on eight crowns, a provincial
accent, and a piece of rusty iron which is fitter to toast half a
saddle of mutton than to enhance the scabbard of a gentleman. And if
you make this speaking good, why, it will be still better. For this
is a very high standard, brother, you are setting up, and I doubt me
grievously whether even the Preux Chevalier would be able to maintain
it.”

He concluded with such an insolent and unexpected roar of laughter as
made me grow furious.

“I would have you beware, sir!” I cried. “Were you twice as gross in
your stature and three times as rude, I run you through the heart if
again you contemn the unsullied name of my noble father.”

“Your father was one-handed,” said this gigantical ruffian, looking at
me steadily. “He was as stupid in his wits as a Spanish mule, and I
spit in the face of the unbearded child that bears his name.”



CHAPTER VI

OF A PRIVATE BRAWL. I TAKE PROFIT AT THE COST OF REPUTATION


BEFORE I could draw my sword my challenger was on his feet, had kicked
away the stool on which he had sat, and had bared his own weapon. I
was so overcome with fury that I could not stay to mark his enormous
stature, yet his head seemed to live among the hams in the roof.

This was the first occasion I had drawn my sword in a quarrel, but I
needed to ask no better. The pure reputation of this noble heart I was
defending nerved my right arm with unimaginable strength. Besides,
I was twenty-one years old, well grown and nourished for one of my
nation. My blade was of an ancient pattern, but a true Toledo of the
first quality, and many high deeds of the field had been wrought
thereby. The Englishman towered above me in the extremity of his
stature, but had he been of twice that assemblance, in my present mood
I would not have feared him. For, as I was fain to believe, some of the
hardiest fighting blood of our northern provinces was in my veins. This
was my first duello; but you must not forget, reader, that my father
had instructed me how to bear my point, how to thrust, how to receive,
and, above all, how to conduct the wrist as laid down by the foremost
practice.

We spent little time in courtesies, for my anger would not permit
them. At once I ran in upon my adversary, thrusting straight at his
heart. Yet he received my sword on his own with a skill that was truly
wonderful, and turned it aside with ease. All the power I possessed
was behind it, yet he cast it off almost as complacently as if he had
been brushing away a mosquito. The sting of this failure and his air
of disdain caused me to spring at him like a cat, yet, I grieve to
say, without its wariness, for, do what I would, I was unable to come
near him. He saved every stroke with a most marvellous blade, not
once moving his wrist or changing his posture. After this action had
proceeded for some minutes I was compelled to draw off to fetch my
breath; whereon said my adversary with a snarl of contempt that hurt me
more than my impotence:--

“I wish, my son, you would help me to pass the time of the day.”

My instant response was a most furious slash at his head, although it
is proper to mention that this method was not recommended in the rules
of the art as expounded by the illustrious Don Ygnacio. But I grieve to
confess that rage had overmastered me. Yet Sir Richard Pendragon evaded
this blow as dexterously as he had evaded the others.

“Come, brother,” he said; “even for a Spaniard this is futility. This
is no more than knife work. I am persuaded your father was a butcher,
and owed his entire practice to the loins of the Galician hog.”

Such derision galled me worse than a thrust from his sword. Casting
away all discretion I ran in upon him blindly, for at that moment I
was minded to make an end one way or another.

“Worse and worse,” said he. “You bear your blade like a clergyman’s
daughter. Still, do not despair, my young companion; perhaps you will
make better practice for my left hand.”

As he spoke, to my dismay he changed his weapon from his right hand to
his left, and parried me with the same contemptuous dexterity. Suddenly
he made a strong parade, and in the next instant I felt the point of
his sword at my breast.

“Your father must have been a strangely ignorant man, even for a
Spaniard,” he said. “I do not wonder that he lost his right hand at an
early age. You have as little defence as a notorious cutpurse on his
trial. Any time these five minutes you must have been slain.”

Then it was I closed my eyes in the extremity of shame and never
expected to open them again. But to my astonishment the forces of
nature continued to operate, and soon, in a vertigo of fear and anger,
I was fain to look for the cause. It seemed that my enemy had lowered
his point and drawn off. Plainly he intended to use me as a cat uses a
mouse, for his private pleasure. For that reason I fell the harder upon
him, since I knew my life to be forfeit, and I had an instinct that the
more furiously it was yielded the less should I know of a horrid end.

“I will now slit your doublet, my son,” said Sir Richard Pendragon.
“Have you a favourite rib you would care to select? What of the fifth?”

Without more ado he began cutting my doublet with a dexterity that was
amazing. His point flashed here and there across my breast and seemed
to touch it in a thousand places; yet, although the old leather was
pierced continually, no hap was suffered by my skin.

“If only I had my lighter and more fanciful blade of Ferrara here,”
he said in the midst of a thousand fanfaronades and brandishments, “I
would flick every button off your doublet so nicely as a tailor.”

“Kill me!” I cried, flinging myself upon his blade.

I made such a terrific sweep with my sword that it whistled through the
air, and was like to cut off his head. Instead, however, of allowing it
to do so, he met it with a curious turn of the wrist, and the weapon
was hurled from my grasp.

As I stood before him panting and dishevelled, and young in the veins
and full in them too, I seemed to care no more than a flake of snow
for what was about to occur. I could but feel that I had traduced my
father’s reputation, and had cast a grievous slur upon his precept. The
blood was darkening my eyes and singing in my ears, but quite strangely
I was not minding the blade of my enemy. That which was uppermost in my
mind was the landlord’s opinion that he was the Devil in Person.

Upon striking my sword to the ground he bade me remark his method of
disarmament.

“It approaches perfection so nearly,” said he, “as aught can that is
the offspring of the imperfection of man. It is the fruit of a virtuous
maturity; it is the crown of artifice; consider all the rest as nought.
For I do tell thee, Spaniard, this piece of espièglerie, as they say at
Paris, divides one of God’s own good swordsmen from the vulgar herd of
tuck-pushers or the commonalty. And, mark you, it was all done with the
left hand.”

While awaiting with as much composure as I could summon that stroke
which was to put me out of life, there happened a strange thing.
There had come into the room, unobserved by us both, the tap-wench to
the inn. And in a moment, seeing what was toward, this brave little
creature, not much bigger than a stool, and as handsome and flashing a
quean as ever I saw, ran between me and the sword of my adversary.

“Hold, you bloody foreign man!” she cried imperiously.

“Nay, hold yourself, you neat imp,” said the Englishman, catching her
round the middle by his right arm, and lightly hoisting her a dozen
paces as though she had been a sack of feathers. Yet he had made but
a poor reckoning if he thought he could thus dispose of this fearless
thing. For his wine cup, half full of sherry, which had been set in the
chimney-place out of the way of hap, was to her hand. She picked it up,
and hurled the pot and its contents full in the face of the giant.

“Take it, you wicked piece of villainy!” she cried.

Now, by a singular mischance the edge of the cup struck Sir Richard
Pendragon on the forehead. It caused a wound so deep that his blood was
mingled with the excellent wine. Together they flowed into his eyes
and down his cheeks, and so profusely that they stained his doublet
and dripped upon the floor. And the courageous girl, seeing my enemy’s
discomfiture, for what with the liquor and what with his gore he was
almost blind for the nonce, she darted across the room and picked up
my sword. With a most valiant eagerness she pressed it into my hand.

“Now, young señor gentleman, quick, quick!” she cried. “Have at him and
make an end of him!”

“Alack, you good soul,” said I, “this cannot be. I am the lawful prize
of my adversary. God go with you, you kind thing.”

I cast the sword to the ground.

“Then oh, young master, you are a very fool.” Tears sprang to the eyes
of the honest girl and quenched her fiery glances.

However, so dauntless was the creature in my cause that she picked up
my sword again, and crying, “I myself will do it, señor,” actually had
at the English barbarian with the greatest imaginable valiancy.

In the meantime the giant had been roaring at his own predicament in
the most immoderate fashion. For, on feeling his head, and discovering
that the stream that trickled into his eyes was a compound of elements
so delectable, he cast forth his tongue at it in a highly whimsical
manner, and drew as much into his mouth as he could obtain.

“I have my errors,” he cried, rocking with mirth; “but if a wanton
disregard of God’s honest sherris be there among, when he dies may this
ruby-coloured one be called to the land of the eternal drought. Jesu!
what a body this Pendragon azure gives it. ’Tis choicer than Tokay out
of the skull of a Mohammedan. When the hour comes to invest me in my
shell, I will get me a tun of sherris and sever a main artery, and I
will perish by mine own suction.”

He had scarcely concluded these comments when the brave little maid had
at him with my sword. Expecting no such demonstration on the part of
one not much taller than his leg, it needed all his adroitness of foot,
which for one of his stature was indeed surprising, to save the steel
from his ribs. And so set was the creature on making an end of him that
the force with which she dashed at his huge form, and yet missed it,
carried her completely beyond her balance. With another of his mighty
roars, the English giant seized her by the nape with his right hand,
and held her up in the air by the scruff, so curiously as if she had
been a fierce little cat that had flown at him.

“Why, thou small spitfire,” he said, “thou art even too slight to be
cracked under mine heel. Thou pretty devil, I will buss thee.”

“I will bite off the end of your nose, you bloody-minded villain,”
cried the little wench, struggling frantically in his gripe.

“Nay, why this enmity, pretty titmouse,” said the giant, “seeing that I
have a mind to fondle thee for thy valour?”

“You would slay the young gentleman señor, you wicked cut-throat
villain, you!”

“Nay, by my hand I will not, if you will give me twenty honest busses,
you neat imp, to heal my contusion.”

“You swear, Englishman, upon your wicked beard, the young señor
gentleman shall come to no hurt if I kiss you?”

“I will swear, thou nice hussy, by the bones of all my ancestors
in their Cornish cemetery, that young Don Cock-a-hoop shall go
uncorrected for all his sauciness and pretension. With eight crowns
in his wallet and a most unfathomable ignorance he drew his tuck on a
right Pendragon. But so much effrontery shall go unvisited, mark you,
at the price of twenty honest busses from those perfect lips of thine.
If thou art not the most perfect thing in Spain, I am little better
than a swaggerer.”

“Put me down then, Englishman,” said the little wench as boldly as an
ambassador; “and do you give the young gentleman señor his sword.”

“So I will; but I would have you remark it, pretty titmouse, that I
will be embraced with all the valiancy of thy nature. Ten on each side
of my royal chaps, and one for good kindness right i’ th’ middle.”

“Give the young gentleman señor his sword, then, you English villain.”

So had this matter accosted the humour of Sir Richard Pendragon that he
obeyed her.

“Take it, young Spaniard,” said he with a magnificent air; “and do you
consider it as your first lesson in the affairs of the world. I do
perceive two precepts to whose attention your noble father does not
appear to have directed you. The first is, never draw upon the premier
swordsman of his age, so long as life hath any savour in it; and for
the other, never lack the favour of a farthingale. Do I speak sooth,
good girl?”

“Yes, you do, you large villain,” said the little creature, with her
two fierce eyes as black as sloes. “And now I will kiss you quickly, so
that I may have done. I shall scarcely be able to chew so much as a
piece of soft cheese for a month after it.”

The Englishman seated himself upon his stool, and set her upon his
knees.

“Begin upon the right, my pretty she, slowly, purposefully, and with
valiancy. I would as lief have your lips as a bombard of sherris. If
it were not for one Betty Tucker, a dainty piece at the ‘Knight in
Armour’ public-house hard by to the town of Barnet, in the kingdom of
Great Britain, I would bear you at my saddle-bow all the way back to
our little England, and marry you at the church of Saint Clement the
Dane, which is in London city. For next to sack I love valour, and next
to valour I love my soul. Now then, thou nice miniard, I must taste
thy lips softly, courteously, but yet with valiancy as becomes thy
disposition.”

It was never my fortune to behold a sight more whimsical than that of
this monstrous fellow seated with the blood still trickling down to
his chin, while this little black-eyed wench, not much bigger than his
fist, with her skin the colour of a walnut, her hair hanging loose, and
her rough clothes stained and in tatters, dealt out her kisses first to
one side of his ugly mouth and then to the other, yet making as she did
so lively gestures of disgust.

“Courteously, courteously!” cried the giant. “Let us have no unmannerly
haste in this operation, or I will have them all over again.”

“Nay, you shall not; I will take heed of that. That is fifteen. Another
ten, you foreign villain, would give me a canker in my front teeth.”

“Nay, that is but fourteen, my pretty mouse. Here we have the
fifteenth. Courteously, courteously, do I not tell thee. See to it that
it is so long drawn out that I may count nine.”

“There’s twenty, you large villain!” cried the little creature in huge
disgust, and slipping off his knee as quickly as a lizard.

“Aye, but where’s the lucky one, the one right i’ th’ middle, that I
was to have for good fellowship?”

“It was not in the terms, and I will not give it thee.”

“Not in the terms, pretty titmouse! By my hand I will not be cozened in
this manner.”

The little creature scuttled away like a rat, but the giant had his
hands on her before she could get to the door.

“Now for the lucky one, thou sweet hellicat, the one right i’ th’
middle,” cried he, swinging her up to him as though she had been a
squirrel.

“Unhand me, foreign dog!” she cried, with a snort of defiance, “else I
will bite thee in the cheek.”

“Do thou, sweet adder, for I love thee.”

“There, you large villain!”

She darted her strong teeth, flashing with whiteness, at him, and he
dropped her with an oath, as though she had been a snake. She made
off out of doors as nimbly as a cat, leaving the astonished giant to
staunch yet another wound she had dealt him.

“By my soul”--he pressed his hands to his ribs and his face grew
empurpled with his roars--“I have the greatest mind in the world to
marry that pretty doxey.”



CHAPTER VII

OF THE DISABILITIES THAT ATTEND ON GENTLE BIRTH


“SIR RICHARD PENDRAGON,” said I, when at last the immoderation of his
mirth would permit me to address him, “I make you my service. I owe it
to your clemency that I retain my life.”

“My young companion,” said he, “I pray you not to mention so small an
affair. I did but require a little exercise for mine arm. I had no mind
whatever to slay you.”

“I am afraid, Sir Richard,” I confessed, “that in my heat I would have
slain you readily had it but lain in my power.”

“Well, well,” said this remarkable man, with a magnanimity for which I
should have been the last to allow him the credit, “in our heats and
violences even we strong minds are like to commit that from which in
soberness we should refrain. I remember discoursing upon this point
with the Crown Prince of Bohemia. ‘Charles,’ said I--there was ever a
great familiarity between us--‘Charles,’ said I, ‘I would slay no man
in a private quarrel unless he were a villain.’ ‘Not even if he had
sworn to slay you, my illustrious friend?’ said the Crown Prince. ‘No,
Charles,’ said I. ‘The truly illustrious are the truly magnanimous.’
‘The sentiment is fine, good coz,’ said the heir to the throne. ‘There
speaks a great folly or a great nature.’ Now, my young companion, which
cap is it that fits the first-born son of a sainted English lady?”

“I believe you to be a good man, Sir Englishman. I know you are a great
swordsman; and also you appear to have an excellent knowledge of the
world. I make you my service.”

“These are honest words,” said he. “I wish you had an hundred crowns;
you would make a good appearance as my squire. You would be able to
clean my horse as well as another, and polish my spurs, and in return
I would advise you in the use of the sword, the broadsword, and, above
all, the noblest of God’s implements--the Italian rapier.”

“I would that I had, sir, for it would seem that I have but slight
pretension to the handling of these weapons. And methinks that here is
an art in which a man must aspire to excellence if he is to win his way
to fortune in a time so perilous.”

“You speak sooth, my son. A pedigree will bring no advancement to
virtue in these evil times unless it is accompanied by a bit of shrewd
steel and a deft wrist to push home its modest claims. But I grieve to
say, good Don, that I never met a more disappointing blade. Had you
never borne it before in the cause of integrity?”

I confessed that I had not.

“Well, gossip, you must pass many a weary vigil ere you can win the
mastery of this incomparable tool. But in spite of your nation, as I
perceive you to be a youth of parts, I have a mind to put you in the
way of the rudiments. My young son of the Spains, your peninsula is a
foolish one; but, as I say, you are of good birth and your intentions
are honourable--two vital particulars upon which my sainted mother was
extremely nice. It will only be a little against me if I teach you
the use of the sword. Give me those eight crowns and you shall be my
squire.”

He held out his hand for all I had in the world. Yet this was a matter
for grave reflection. Poor as I was, and humbled in my thoughts, I was
still a Spanish gentleman; and expert as was this Englishman with the
sword, and finely as he was found in wisdom, he was yet one of another
nation, and scarcely to be esquired by a blood like mine. My condition
was such that I could not give my service to one less in degree than a
Spanish nobleman, or one who was at least a prince in his own country;
and although this Englishman had moved about the courts of Europe and
Asia Minor, and the blood of kings flowed under his doublet, it was yet
a parlous thing for my father’s son, a veritable Sarda y Boegas, to
attend him in a humble capacity.

“Why, brother,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, “would you insult a
generous nature with your reluctancy? Is not the suggestion a noble
one? Is it not princely? Have I not peddled a great mind about Europe
for thirty years in the mild pursuit of knowledge, and do I not place
at your service the whole store of my politeness for the paltry sum of
eight crowns? Yet was I ever immoderate in the love of worth. My young
Spaniard, I have conceived a deep regard for your character. Besides,
I am in need of a squire, and between you and me and the door, eight
crowns will not come amiss.”

So much fair and honourable speaking upon the part of the Englishman
caused me to take most earnest thought. But at last, with a proper
submission, for the offer was fine from a swordsman so notable, I felt
I must deny him.

“I thank you from the heart, sir, for such fair words, proceeding as
they do from a man of learning and genius, but I fear I must seek my
fortune alone. My condition renders it necessary that the person I
serve be not less in degree than one of the Spanish nobility.”

“By cock!” he cried, “is not a Pendragon worthy? Can you be
unacquainted with the fact that a king’s blood flows under every
doublet of that name?”

“It is not the blood of a king of Spain, and therefore, good
Englishman, though I like you well, I fear I cannot attend you.”

I think my words must have worked on this mad fellow--since I have
come to know the world better I have learned that all Englishmen
are mad--for he put by his indignation, looked at me with immense
solemnity, and teased his short chin beard.

“So be it, my young companion. You are a man of birth, and in every
country under the stars a chip of that quality must be allowed his
maggot. Blood is blood wherever it flows, whether it is in Arabia
sitting in a mosque without its shoes, or whether it is in England,
drinking malmsey and eating walnuts with the Heir Apparent. I myself
am of that condition, and therefore, good Spaniard, none is better
acquainted with those immodest fancies that vex the minds of the nobly
nurtured.”

“These are good words, Sir Richard; and if my name were other than
Miguel Jesus Maria de Sarda y Boegas I would ask no better master for
my two hands and my faithful service.”

“Well, Master Miguel Jesus Maria de Sarda y Boegas, I never heard such
proud speaking on eight crowns before. If you had eight thousand I
expect you would be a maker of ballads. But I am inclined to love you
for it; and therefore out of a gentle feeling propose to teach you the
use of the sword. First, I would have you hand me your old tuck.”

With a proper humility I gave him my sword.

“Why,” said he, making divers sweeps and passes with it, “it would
weary one of twice your stature. It would require the giant Cormoran to
wield it delicately. It is a good thing but an ancient; it is at least
an hundred years behind the age.”

“My noble father gave it into my hand as death closed his eyes,” said
I, feeling my pride to be surmounting my humility.

“I expect your father was a very brave man, and as such I esteem him.
All the same, I should say that the intellect was not more than half
his estate.”

“He was as wise a man as ever lived.”

“As wise a Spaniard I make no doubt. But the really wise men live in
England. It is also the home of the first swordsmen of the time. You
see, Master Miguel, there is no true felicity in anything without true
mind. That is why we English are so fortunate; we have the mind and
therefore the felicity. Now, Master Miguel, I will show you how to fix
your gripe upon your sword. The wrist must be free, and the arm must
have good play.”

For more than an hour this learned master expounded the rudiments of
this weapon, which he swore by his beard I did not know. He declared
that every one of my father’s precepts, which I had to confess I had
put to a poor use, would not have been new in the time of the Cid. And
although I had a mind to dispute this contempt for my father’s opinion,
I did not venture, since I was quite unable to support the precepts of
my youth with any fair ensample. Indeed, only the highest presumption
would have ventured to dispute with so arch a master of the noble
weapon. There appeared to be nothing appertaining to its nature and
conduct that he did not know. He said he had devoted his life to this
study, and infinite practice, allied to the kindness of his stars, had
given him an address that was incomparable.

There was one trick he performed which I often recall, with such wonder
did it fill me. He took from a scabbard which he kept under his eye in
the chimney corner, a long, fine, and tapering Italian rapier, which
he declared was the most perfect and poetic thing of man’s invention.
With no other weapon than this, he met my own sword in such a fashion
that, heavy as it was, it seemed but as a lath before it. Indeed I,
its wielder, was unable to make the least advance therewith; and to
my amazement, with the might of his arm and this thin piece of steel,
he urged me before him all over the room. Afterwards he rolled up the
sleeve of his doublet with an air of pride, and showed the contour of
that enormous limb.

“Yet, Master Miguel,” said he, “it is not brute strength that makes the
man you behold. It is the deftness of the fingers in conjunction with
the brain’s agility.”

By the time my lesson was concluded the sweat had sprung from every
pore, and I was breathing heavily. On the contrary, the Englishman, who
had exerted himself not less greatly, was untroubled in any particular,
save that of the throat, an inconvenience, however, which in his case
seemed to be of a permanent character.

“These exercises,” said he, “I perform every day to keep the limbs
supple and the wrists responsive. Sometimes, if I feel especially
valiant, I place an apple or an onion upon the head of the old bull
frog of an innkeeper, and slice it in four quarters with my broadsword,
and to observe him quake as if he had the ague is the most delectable
sight. He is forever thinking that my honest blade will proceed too
far, and cleave through his mind; and I conceive it to be my duty
to assure him that he does well to show this concern, for sometimes
accidents have been known to occur.”

He then offered very courteously to perform a like action to an apple
placed upon my own head. This, however, I declined with a courtesy
which I hope was not less than his own.

Sir Richard Pendragon, having drunk copiously of his favourite beverage
out of his favourite cup, and having insisted that I should follow his
example, said,--

“Master Miguel, in what part of the globe do you intend to adventure
to-morrow with your noble eight crowns? They will not bear you above a
thousand leagues; fortune does not grow on the bushes, according to all
that I have heard about it; your stomach is too proud to take service
with one who has the blood of kings flowing under his doublet; so it
would seem that unless you bring your chaste mind to the nicking of
purses and the cutting of throats, your body will starve.”

“God forbid, sir! I have devices of my own. I mind me of one of the
finest and most sententious of my father’s precepts.”

“Not of swordsmanship, I trust?”

“No, sir, of conduct.”

“Not of conduct of the sword, Master Miguel Jesus Maria de Sarda y
Boegas--how I love the sound of that name!--if I may put the question?”

“Not conduct of the sword, sir, conduct of the heart. My father’s
precept was this: ‘In choosing him you shall serve, rather let it be
some high lord or gentleman of birth, diminished in his fortune, or in
some sort isolated from his right estate, for it is the cause of the
weak that feeds the valiant.’”

It was pleasing to witness Sir Richard Pendragon nod his head in
approval.

“That was well observed of your father, Master Miguel. I am rejoiced
to notice that he knew a little more of mankind than he did of martial
weapons. But, by my sooth, you will not need to look above a thousand
leagues for this high lord or gentleman of birth, diminished in his
fortune, or in some sort isolated from his right estate.”

“I am well pleased,” said I eagerly, “that he is so near at hand. Where
may he be, good Englishman?”

“He sits before you, gentle Spaniard, sipping a quartern of sack out of
a silver goblet on a three-legged stool.”

“I would ask no better master, had the king’s blood in his veins been a
true Spanish colour.”

“Well, every man to his taste,” said he, looking into his wine, “but
you Spaniards are very mad fellows. The blood of Uthyr Pendragon, sire
of Arthur, king and sovereign lord of Britain, not being to your mind,
we must make abatement of this peninsularity of yours, and find some
other.”

“I would serve some Spanish gentleman of high degree, and if you can
bring one to mind, Sir Englishman, who, diminished in his fortune, has
a beauteous and enchanting daughter--”

“Oho! we have now in the case a beauteous and enchanting daughter! Is
that another of your father’s precepts, my son, or does it proceed out
of your own wise pate?”

“The words of my father are these: ‘Set your heart without haughtiness,
but with bright ambition, upon some fair Spanish lady, one whose
condition is the equal of her beauty, and whose figure in the world is
of the first consideration, for so much superiority shall raise your
spirit, my gentle kinsman, to vie with hers, and be, as it were, as
that North Star that is fixed above the seas to point the course of
fortune. And further, gentle kinsman, I append as follows: When your
parts and situation are fit to vie with hers, the blood of a Sarda y
Boegas shall make you the nuptial lord of this proud lady.’”

When I had given this further precept of my father’s, the Englishman
sat laughing into his hands.

“Why, this is the maddest fellow,” he said, as if to himself; “yet I
like to hear these notions of his, because there is a kind of poetry
in them, and there is no saying whither his maggot will be leading him
next.”

“I wish, sir, you could aid me in the quest of this nobleman I seek,
and likewise of this beautiful and enchanting lady.”

“What should English Dick know of these noblemen you seek, and these
beautiful and enchanting ladies, you mad varlet?”

“You know the world so thoroughly. I believe you are acquainted with
every blade of grass that grows in it, and you appear to be familiar
with every person of the first consideration that inhabits it.”

“The varlet is not so mad after all,” he said, with a sleek air.
“Now and again there is sooth in him, although the rascal is always
flying off into such odd ideas. Yes, I am acquainted with the world a
little, Don Miguel Jesus Maria de Sarda y Boegas--that name will be my
doom!--and although I know hardly anything that is good of that part of
it which is oddly called Spain--another most ridiculous sounding name
to my mind!--I think I have heard of just the one person in it who will
be the man for your services.”

“A Spanish nobleman?”

“As full of nobility as a dog is of fleas. Quarterings I know not how
many; and as proud as the Fiend.”

“Of what degree, sir?”

“A duke, to be sure. Duke of Montesina--and as haughty as mine old and
dear friend the Sophy.”

“Is he diminished in his fortune, sir, and isolated from his right
estate?”

“Yes, by my troth. He is as bankrupt in his substance as he is in his
wit. Were he not well found in virtuous principles, he would be obliged
to starve like a sparrow in a hard winter.”

“And is this virtuous nobleman embroiled with an enemy?”

“Yes, good Don. He hath been embroiled this long while with the King of
Castile, his covetous nephew and bitter foe, who seeks to add his fair
castle and good lands above the city of Toledo to his own dominion.
And I may tell you, Spaniard, this Castilian is like to do it, unless
some wise and cunning hand arises to deny him, for that piece of old
punctilio, who gets nearer to eighty every day, will soon be unable to
fend him off.”

“Can it be,” I cried excitedly, “that Heaven has called me to be this
same wise and cunning hand? This looks uncommonly like a providence.”

“Oh, my dear Don Miguel!” exclaimed the Englishman, breaking forth
into another of his mighty roars of laughter, “I pray you to take pity
on these fluxions of mine. If one of these days you do not lay me
stark dead of an apoplexy, there is not an ounce of king’s blood in my
nature.”

“I am grievously surprised if my stars have not called me to some high
destiny. Don Ygnacio, my father, declared as he lay dying that it was
so.”

“I do fear me then, good Don, this high destiny of yours will declare
itself late in the day. You are as raw as a green pear. You must be set
on the chimney-piece to ripen before you can be considered as a table
fruit.”

“You wrong me, good Sir Richard. I am determined to prove myself as
soon as another. I may have no mind for stratagem, but I shall not be
afeared to draw my sword for this worthy but unfortunate grandee.”

“O Jesu!” said the English giant, laughing into his hands softly,
“I can feel this accursed fluxion mounting into my mind. I can see
perfectly well, Master Miguel, if we go our ways together about this
peninsula of yours, I shall be compelled to travel with a physician.
Not afeared to draw your sword! Why, good Don, your sword is a lath,
and he who draws it has not a hair to his chin, and cannot bleat so
loud as a Barbary sheep.”

“Deride me if you will, Sir Richard, but I will draw my sword for this
grandee. Fortune has decreed it. And tell me, in addition to these
misfortunes of his, hath he a daughter of a most surpassing fairness?”

“You can certainly count on his having a daughter. Dukes all the world
over are notorious getters of wenches.”

I asked the Englishman the reason of this phenomenon.

“It is a singular quality of their blood,” he declared. “It loses its
ambition and fills the world with farthingales.”

“Indeed,” said I, “is that the case? But it doth truly appear that this
virtuous Duke of Montesina was designed by Heaven that I might fulfil
my father’s behests. To-morrow, come what may, I will adventure towards
his country; and as you would have me believe that he hath a daughter,
I must hasten to appear before her.”

“A pitiless old hag of sixty, I dare swear,” cried Sir Richard
Pendragon. “There will not be a tooth in her mouth. But now you have
put me in mind of this duke, young sirrah, I think I will adventure
thither myself. For, upon my life, I have a crow to pluck with this
King John of Castile. I mind me it is high time I put paid to a score I
owe him.”

“Wherefore, Sir Richard?”

“Wherefore, my son? ’Tis but a year ago he threw the last of the
Pendragons into a dungeon; and had it not been for the ready
contrivance of that meritorious mind in scraping a hole through the
wall with a nail out of his shoe, he would have ceased to drink sack
this twelvemonth. Yes, Spaniardo, it was a most villainous matter, and
it is certainly time I put it in order.”

“If I may ride with you, sir, I shall count it a proud day,” said I,
making a low bow; for this strange man, with all his quiddity, was one
whose company was to be esteemed in an early adventure into the world.

“You shall, good Don,” said he, smiling upon me with much civility.
“And now let us draw our cloaks about us and creep into the
chimney-place, and sleep the sleep of those who addict themselves to
virtue. You take one corner and I will take the other; and let us pray
that we sleep like doom, for I tell you, brother, it is a long and hard
journey to Toledo.”

Seeing him quaff the final dregs in his monstrous cup, which of late
had begun to thicken his speech a little, seeing him wrap his cloak
about him and otherwise suit his action to his words, I was fain to
imitate him in these particulars. Nestling into the warm corner of the
chimney, for after the heat of the day the northern night was cold,
fatigue overcame me at once, and I fell into a profound and delicious
sleep.



CHAPTER VIII

OF A GREAT CALAMITY


I HAD not even time to mutter my prayers, which, considering what lay
before me, were never so sorely needed, ere I was in a sweet oblivion.
Upon returning from this pleasant bourne a joyful sense of refreshment
stole over my veins, for my slumber had been dreamless, and for several
hours the sun had been in attendance on the morning.

The first thing I observed was my companion of the previous night. He
was seated on his stool, and was blowing with his mouth upon a basin of
porridge.

“Landlord,” I heard him roar, “if you do not bring me a cup of sack
to cool my throat, which I have blistered already with your damnable
gruel, the worms will have fresh meat in their larder.”

He pointed this threat by thrusting his dagger into the loose earth
which formed the floor.

“Ha! Spaniardo,” said he, observing that I had opened my eyes, “do I
perceive you to be awake already? You have slept round the clock. What
a notable gift is that of youth.”

“I give you good morrow, Sir Richard Pendragon,” said I, rubbing the
sleep out of my eyes and slowly recalling my situation.

Hardly had I done so than I remembered that eight crowns was my
fortune, in an old piece of goatskin. Instantly I pressed my hand where
I had placed it last. How shall I record the terrible pang that seized
me when I pressed and felt in vain.

I got up and looked all about my corner; looked under the settle on
which I had lain; examined the dry earth which composed the floor;
felt in all my pockets yet again, and even groped among the ashes of
the newly kindled fire. But my purse was not. I cannot tell you what a
desperate pang overcame me when I discovered that I was bereft of every
maravedi I had in the world.

By the time I had concluded these investigations the Englishman,
who had been far too much employed with his breakfast to heed these
actions, had taken himself off out of doors. I was glad to find him
gone; and I proceeded to conduct my search in every corner of the
place, in the vain hope that it had fallen from me in those energetic
passages of the previous night. But I should have done as well to look
in a sandpit for a precious stone.

I was standing with my hands tucked in my doublet, and trying ruefully
enough to confront my position, when the innkeeper entered. I was
hungry, yet I had no money with which to purchase a breakfast. Further,
I had not a friend; I had not a home; I was in a country as foreign to
me as a distant land; and I hardly dared in this predicament to turn to
a stranger to crave a word of kindness. And now did I feel so tender in
my years, and so plainly did I discern that my experience of mankind
was insufficient for my needs, that even as I stood I felt despair
spread over me in a manner that I should have thought impossible. So
far was I from my valiancy of the previous evening that I nearly shed
tears before the innkeeper when I mentioned to him my loss.

Now here you shall mark the difference between a man who has breeding
and a man who has not. No sooner did I confide my loss to the innkeeper
and that I was left as penniless as a beggar, than this notorious
coward, who the previous night had called for my aid, pulled the wryest
mouth I ever saw and looked upon me rudely.

“Does Pedro understand by this,” he said in a desperate tone of injury,
“that you will not pay him for your lodging and the quantities of wine
and victual you had of him last night?”

“Not _will not_, landlord--_cannot_,” said I miserably, not having now
the spirit to defend myself from his reproaches. “I grieve to say I
have not so much as a penny in the world. The amount of my score must
stand as a loan you have made to me, and I will not sleep of a night
until you are repaid. I will charter a messenger to bring you your just
due as soon as I can obtain it.”

“Why, what words are these?” the innkeeper whined. “Loan--sleep of a
night--a messenger! Oh, by the Virgin Mary, I have been robbed and
cheated! Look here, you who pretend to be a gentleman, I will have
it out of you. Pedro has been mishandled by such as you before this
morning. And oh, good Our Lady, how he did cozen you, Pedro, when you
told of this foreign cut-throat who for three weeks has used you the
same.”

It made my ear burn, reader, that I, Miguel Jesus Maria de Sarda
y Boegas, of the sangre azul of my native Asturias, should stand
before this common fellow in the light of a rogue. Yet in spite of
the innkeeper’s hard words I strove to bear myself with patience
and dignity, for it was ever my father’s opinion that Fortune is a
capricious mistress, who will oft humiliate her wooers not so much to
do them hurt, but to make proper trial of their fortitude. Yet it was
not my spirit alone that was to be vexed in this affair; my body was to
be mortified also. Having slept many hours, and being in the flush of a
vigorous youth, I grew bitterly hungry.

“Not a sip, not a crumb,” snarled the landlord, when I asked modestly
enough that my breakfast and that of my horse might be scored up with
the rest.

Now here it was that the brave little serving-wench, who the previous
evening had saved my life, came up to her master.

“Give the young gentleman his wine and his porridge,” said she, “and,
master, I myself will bear his charges.”

“You, good wench!” I asked incredulously, for she was so ragged that
she looked in worse case than myself.

“Yes, young gentleman, I can pay,” she answered proudly. “I make it a
practice to save a hundred maravedis of my wages a year.”

“Very well then, Casilda,” said the innkeeper. “Fetch me fifty of your
maravedis, and you may bring this young rogue his breakfast. But you
are a little fool, I say, for he is but a travelling cheat who will
never repay you.”

No sooner had her master spoken thus to my disparagement than the
kindly creature, who was really very handsome if you will believe me,
reader, stood up most majestically upon all her few inches, and said
like a little queen,--

“Shame upon you, master! He is no cheat, but a very gentleman, with the
sweetest face and an honest and kind expression, just like Victor, our
old mule. I would trust him to the utmost of my wages; and if I do not
see my money again, I shall know that fortune has used him ill.”

It touched me to the soul to hear this rude and tattered little
creature speak up for me like this--for me, a beggar, without a friend
in the whole of the world. There was no reason, except that furnished
by a kind heart, why she should confide her savings to one unknown to
her, one from whom all things were averse.

While I ate my breakfast with not so good a relish as I had expected,
I could not but meditate upon so much goodness proceeding out of a low
condition, and, further, upon the humiliation of my state. I had not
got through with this food for the mind when the Englishman entered,
and in great sickness of the spirit I asked him how far it was to
Toledo.

“An hundred leagues or so,” he said lightly, as though such a journey
was no great affair.

I felt my heart sink. My beggary began to oppress me like a distemper,
for how was I to win such a distant place without so much as a piece
of silver in my coat? Wherefore, with many misgivings and with deep
discomfiture, I laid my case before him. And I asked counsel of him,
for in spite of his mad humours, for which his nation was to blame, he
was a man of birth, a man of excellent native shrewdness, and he knew
the world.

When I told him of my pass, he blinked his eyes a good deal, rubbed his
chin, and held his jaw in his hand with an air of deep perplexity.

“This is a devil of a matter,” he said very gravely. “You would not
suppose, Master Miguel, that this purse of yours took to itself a pair
of legs, walked out of your pocket, and started out into the desert to
admire the scenery?”

“I fail to see how it could do so.”

“I share your opinion, good Don; therefore I adjudge the landlord, who
is a scurvy fellow, to have picked it out of your pocket as you lay
asleep.”

“Ah no,” said I; “the unhappy man is sorely afflicted at the loss. I
cannot pay my score, and he has accused me of not having had the money
at all.”

“Has he so?” said Sir Richard Pendragon. “That sounds like a deep
rascal. I am convinced this accursed innkeeper has the eye of a picker
and stealer.”

“I pray you, sir, not to accuse the poor man. I feel sure he would not
stoop to such an act, and already he has been misused grievously.”

“Well, good Don, if you are clear as to his innocence--and I am not
sure of it myself--and you really had this amount of money?”

“Oh yes, to be sure I had--it was my patrimony.”

“And it did not walk out of the inn of itself, and that black-eyed
little wench has not touched it--and though she’s a rude quean I
believe she would not--and there is no hole in your pocket--is it
possible there is a hole in your pocket, good Don?”

“There is no hole in my pocket, sir.”

“And there is no cat or dog about the premises; and the innkeeper, by
an odd chance--for he is the first of his kidney that is--is an honest
man--you have either mislaid your purse, good Don, you never had it, or
as you lay asleep you must have dreamed of fortune and have swallowed
it.”

Although the Englishman’s gravity was so admirable, it helped me but
little; and when I got on my knees to creep all over the ground to
seek for my treasure, and met all manner of filth by the way, he too
began poking about with the point of his sword, yet met with no better
success than did I.

“It is a case for a physician,” he said, “for a man to dream of
fortune, and in the unnatural excitation of his mind to swallow all his
money.”

“I know not what to do,” said I miserably. “I have not a groat to take
me to Toledo.”

The Englishman rubbed his chin again; and this I observed was his habit
when he thought heavily.

“This is indeed a devil of a matter,” he said. “You see, if you had had
a little money you could have been my squire and I could have borne you
with me; but I do not see how one of my condition can take a squire
into his service unless he receives a fee for so doing.”

“Well, sir,” I said, feeling that now no choice was left to me, “I am
prepared to take service with you.”

“Are you so?” said the Englishman, rubbing his chin harder than ever.
“Yes, but you see, Master Miguel, a person of my quality does not
receive a squire into his service for the love of his eyes.”

“My blood, sir, is of the first condition,” said I humbly. “My father’s
pedigree is contained in the archives of Simancas.”

“Yes, fair shrew; but a pedigree will not grow apples, as we say in
our plain English manner. My own pedigree can be referred to between
the hours of eleven and three at the Herald’s College in the city of
London; but I should not have got so much as a cup of sack by it unless
it had been accompanied by a good sword. You see, Master Miguel, had
you had an hundred crowns you might have borne your knee by my saddle
and looked at the world; but since you have had the misfortune to
swallow every silver piece in your possession, body of God!--to use a
profane expression--I do not see what is to be done with you.”

“Oh, sir,” I said, oppressed with my despair, “I pray you to consider
of my situation. Bear me with you to this duke you mention, and half of
my first year’s emolument shall be yours.”

“Emolument! Why, my young companion, this duke is about as rich as
yourself. Still, it is an offer that betrays an honourable disposition;
and not being likely to receive anything more substantial in your
present pass, I dare say it behoves me to take it, and prove myself not
to be covetous. But all the same, Master Miguel, I could have wished
you had had a little something to eke out your charges by the way, for
I have noticed that living is very expensive in this part of the world.”

In this manner I sealed the momentous compact to enter the service of
the Englishman. You will readily conceive, good reader, that in this
matter the choice was none of my own. Indeed, had I not gone forth in
his company I might never have come to the duke at all. And at least,
although he was not of our peninsula, he was a man of birth, with a
fine genius for the sword, and a deep acquaintance with the world. Yet
I did not like to think what my father would have suffered could he
have known of my case, and how such blood as his had come to be the
body servant of one of a foreign nationality.

Shortly after this affair was settled we arranged to go upon our road,
and I went forth to the stable to put the saddle on Babieca. As I made
to do this, the Englishman called out to me in a loud and insolent tone
such as would not have come amiss to a groom or a varlet,--

“Miguel, you had best put the saddle on my own horse also. Beware he
does not bite you; he is as rude as a lion to all except his personal
friends.”

Upon the instant the blood sang in my ears to hear a stranger apply my
baptismal name with such familiarity, and to such a tune, as though I
were a menial. Indeed, it galled me so, that I drew back to remonstrate
with him upon the matter, in order that a wrong impression of our
relationship might not get abroad. But even in this pass I was able to
reflect and was visited by wisdom. For what is manhood, and what is
blood, and what is dignity that they must be asserted on the smallest
occasion? “Knaves protest of their virtue too much, low persons of
their condition” was a saying of Don Ygnacio’s. Yet to prove that my
thoughts had run in the mind of another, no sooner had I come to the
stable and had taken up the saddle of Babieca, perhaps with my head
somewhat high and a proud consideration in my mien, than there came a
rustle of the straw, and upon looking up I saw at my side that little
wench who had already stood so much my friend.

“Will the gentleman señor let me do it?” she asked shyly. “I can see he
is of that condition that ought never to saddle horses.”

These words were spoken with such soft earnestness that quite a gentle
beauty was thrown about this rustic creature.

“You are very kind, good girl, but as I am setting forth to bend the
world to my devices with my own two hands I must learn to do these
things.”

She lowered her looks, and said with a softness almost as of music, “My
name is Casilda. If you could speak it once, young gentleman, before
you go away forever into the world, I would always remember you, for I
have never seen such sweetness and kindness before.”

There was such a strange breaking in her voice as thus she spoke that I
felt a sinking of the heart; and looking down upon her I saw her little
form was trembling through its rags, and that her black eyes were full
of tears.

“Casilda,” said I, with a pang which once only had I felt and that was
as my father closed his eyes; “little Casilda, wherever I go, whether
it be all over this great country of Spain, or even as far as foreign
places, and even if I enter into wisdom and riches, and I am called to
sit with the great, so long as God allows me a memory I will never
forget so much goodness as is yours. You are the friend that saved me
from the sword; and now you see me without means and in despair you
bring me your all and you stand my surety.”

“These be true words, young gentleman,” said she in a kind of modest
joy, putting one foot in Babieca’s stirrup that she might raise
herself to look into my eyes. “You speak but your thoughts, sweet
gentleman. And were I a proud lady and might wed you, I would choose
your face before the King’s, and I would cherish it beyond all my great
possessions.”

Upon such speaking I could not forbear to press this sweet little
slattern to my bosom, and yielded my lips to the gentlest mouth that
the night before had been so fierce in my service. And as my embrace
fell about this lowly but honest creature the world itself took a
fairer hue. This was a revelation of my father’s wisdom. Harshness and
unkindness were not the world’s true condition.

The rough voice of the landlord was now calling Casilda lustily. But
the little wench would not leave me until she had brought some oats for
Babieca’s breakfast, which otherwise the honest horse was like to go
without. And even as she left the stable at last, crying, “Go with God,
señor; my prayers and my constant heart are yours forever,” she ran
back again to whisper with the most urgent instancy, “Be wary, señor,
of that foreign man. I would not have you trust him at all. He is much
less of a caballero than he speaks, and very much more of a thief.”

I had to reprove the little quean for this counsel, lest I should prove
untrue to my master’s service. And although by this time the innkeeper
was promising to visit her with a cudgel if she did not come to him
directly, she ran back to me yet again, jumped into Babieca’s stirrup,
just like a cat, and snatched another embrace, declaring that in spite
of every innkeeper in the world, her leave of me should be one of
kindness.

These were almost my final passages at this inn, since in less than
twenty minutes my new master and I were breasting our way to the south.
Yet I mourn to tell you, reader, that as soon as we were in the saddle
there came the bitter curses of the landlord to our ears. Neither of us
had requited him with so much as a peseta in return for our benefits.
But in this matter I must declare Sir Richard Pendragon to be by far
the more reprehensible. He had dwelt full twenty nights under the
roof-tree of this inn, whereas I had dwelt but one. Besides in his
pouch was the wherewithal, but I regret to state that the inclination
was not in his heart; whereas with me, as I will leave you to suppose,
the contrary was the true state of the case.

Indeed, I learned that the Englishman had a conviction of a deep-seated
sort upon this subject. For when I heard the innkeeper’s outcry I felt
unable to suffer it, and begged my companion to make me a loan of the
amount of my score, that my debt at least might be expunged. To the
which he replied that I appeared to have an incredible ignorance of
human nature, and the more particularly that part of it that included
innkeepers. He said he would prefer to cast his money in the sea than
put it to such misuse.

“To rise a little earlier than an innkeeper,” said he, “is a civil
practice and has the sanction of Heaven. I would have you to
know, Miguel, that my hair has been bleached before its season for
consideration of the poor souls that this monstrous race has brought to
ruin. Young men, old men, virgins, widows, matrons, small children of
both sexes--oh! I tell you, Miguel, to think of this breeds a dreadful
sickness within me. I will always rise, please Heaven, a little earlier
than an innkeeper, for this iniquitous tribe has been the sworn enemy
of my family for a thousand years. Was it not the landlord of ‘The
Rook and Flatfish’ in the Jewry, a little bald fellow with an eye like
a kite, that mulcted my revered ancestor, Sir Andrew Pendragon, in
the sum of two shillings and ninepence--think on it, good Don!--for
a pint of sack and a gurnet when the true price was never more than
twelvepence halfpenny in a time of famine. And this is only to mention
one matter out of an hundred in that sort. Oh, believe me, Miguel,
we Pendragons have suffered miserably at the hands of innkeepers all
through the course of history; but if the present wearer of this name
does not redress a few of these injustices, call him not a true man,
not a good fellow, but a rogue on whom the sun shines by courtesy.”

I was glad to find that Sir Richard Pendragon had these deep reasons
for his action in this affair. Evidently he had meditated to a purpose
upon the subject, and in the name of his own race, of which he was the
last representative, was determined to be avenged upon its hereditary
foes.

As we continued our way across the sandy plain or desert, the heat grew
so severe that in the afternoon we were compelled to seek the shade
of the first tree that offered. Under this pleasant canopy of leaves
Sir Richard flung himself prone, with his enormous length stretched
out to the full, and a kerchief laid across his face to defend it from
the flies. He soon fell to snoring in a furious manner. No repose came
to me, however, for my strange situation ran in my mind continually,
turning my thoughts into a queer sort of vertigo which left me
uncertain whether to be of good courage or to yield to despair.



CHAPTER IX

OF OUR ROAD TO THE SOUTH


WHEN my companion awoke the sun was a little lower and we were able
to pursue our journey. He discovered himself to be of a cheerful
disposition, with a nimble fancy, and, for one of his nation, something
of wit. He had also a lively imagination which on occasion grew quite
delectable. Yet, being called to hold a subordinate place in his
company, he allowed his humour to assume so rough an edge towards my
country as was hardly to be borne by a true Iberian. He passed much of
his time in reviling the land of Spain, swearing at everything in it,
and drawing an unworthy comparison between this peninsula of ours and
his distant England, for which I had his word that as a place of abode
it was somewhat more desirable than paradise. Yet every now and again,
just as I would be falling to consider how I could possibly suffer him
further, he would break out into some odd history of his surprising
deeds in many lands. And then to hear him speak of these adventures
in his arch fashion, you would have thought such a valiant person had
never walked the earth since Ruy Diaz.

That he was a man of a signal talent was published in his mien; that he
was one of the first swordsmen of the age I had had the proof; yet I
had but to attend his talk for half an hour in patience and approval,
and with a regular nodding of the head, than he would be so carried
beyond all latitude by the glamour of his own ideas, that he would ask
me to believe that since he had been to Africa the Arabs and other dark
men of that nation no longer addressed their prayers to the moon, but
to one whom, he said, with a modest side-look, must remain without a
name.

“A thousand pardons, good Sir Richard!” said I incredulously, “but
I pray you to consider of your suggestion. Are you not given to the
practice of exaggeration?”

He plucked at his beard when he discovered that the warmth of his fancy
filled me with so much distrust.

“Well, you see, Miguel,” said he, “if it comes to that, perhaps I
am something of an exaggeration altogether. But at least I do not
exaggerate half so much as nature hath exaggerated me. I am a yard and
a half across and two yards and a quarter high.”

“I am ready to believe, good Sir Richard, that a capacious mind goes
with such an assemblance as yours.”

“Aye, but there is not the worst of that matter. Such a parcel of the
virtues wants a bucket of sack of a morning to keep it in health. And
sack is such a notorious inflamer of the fancy that I sometimes break
into poetry and all kinds of bombastical ideas. So, my son, I would not
have you heed above half what I say.”

It was in this easy fashion that we came to Antirun. The stars had long
been shining in the wilderness, yet we arrived without ill hap and
supped at the best inn in the place. But as there only chanced to be
one it was also the worst; and doubtless I might have pointed a truer
indication of its character had I described it as the latter. I shall
never forget the abuse that Sir Richard Pendragon showered upon the
landlord, and although the food was plenty and smoking hot and the wine
was tolerable, he swore his constitution was ruined.

“This is a most damnable peninsula, no doubt about that,” said he as he
proceeded to carve a great smoking turkey.

“Have you been long in our delectable land?” I asked, seeking to divert
his mind from the innkeeper, who was as pale as a ghost.

“Three years and forty days,” said he, “according to the calendar. But
I think I ought to tell you, Spaniardo, that is just three years and
forty days too many.”

“I trust that is far from being the case.”

“Yes, good Spaniardo, when I left the blessed island of England,
where they eat asparagus on the first of March, I was a smiling and
prosperous man; but now owing to this climate, my smile is hidden in my
beard, while my prosperity has had too many Spanish flies upon it to be
any longer a very prosperous affair.”

“Doubtless, sir, you have not travelled into our fairest places?”

“I have travelled this peninsula of yours from Sagres to Perpinan,
from Granada to the Asturias. And other than myself there only lives
one person better able to offer an opinion of its sand, its flies,
its pigs, its inns, its whims and whams, and its infamously dirty
furniture.”

“And who, sir, is he?”

“The Devil.”

“Wherefore one of his infamous character?”

“The Devil made it.”

“By my sooth that is what I can never believe.”

“It is what the Scriptures inform us, Spaniard.”

“Not so, by my faith.”

“There can be no doubt upon that subject, my son. Father Francis, who
was apprenticed to book and scholarship in the prettiest monastery
in Middlesex, and who reads Hebrew quite as well as I do myself, has
assured me on several occasions that ‘though the Scriptures aver that
the Lord created the goodliness of earth and heaven in six days, Spain
is not mentioned.’ The which makes me to contend that as your land
is not mentioned in Holy Writ, and as it differs so greatly from the
goodliness of earth and heaven, as English rectitude differs from
Spanish chastity, it must having so many tarantulas, fops, flies, and
Spaniards in it--and these latter, mark you, never use a word of honest
London English in their lives--it must, I say, being so afflicted with
such pestilence, be the invention of the Devil. And even for the Devil
it was invented very poorly.”

It was during our sojourn at this inn that we fell upon a wise course.
The sun at noon had been so much our enemy in travelling that we
determined to pursue our journey to Toledo in the night. Thus riding
under the coolness of the stars, we made good progress; and so happy
were we in the ease and swiftness of this mode, that each afternoon we
took a siesta apart from the heat of the day, and kept the road in the
darkness.

We had hardly an adventure that was worthy of the name. Indeed the
chief ones were those that Sir Richard saw in his imagination. For
if he so much as observed a peasant sitting his ass and smiling
peacefully, he would hold his sword arm ready, lest he should prove a
robber in disguise.

“For I would have you to understand, good Miguel,” said he, “you are
the one inhabitant of this precious continent to whom I am not afeared
to show my back.”

“Then if you please,” said I, “I would be well content if you make
no exception in my favour; for I am convinced that the least of my
countrymen are worthy of your trust.”

“My young companion,” said he, “I gather from your conversation that
you claim no acquaintance with any land beyond your own cursed sandy
peninsula.”

“Indeed that is the case, sir, and with your leave I will never seek to
dwell in one that is fairer.”

“Alack! it is precisely here where your mind has gone amiss. I am
convinced that were you only to set foot in England, you would take
such a disgust of your native peninsularity as I have taken of it.”

The love of my country incited me to a recollection of what my father
had told me concerning this strange island of which Sir Richard
Pendragon made such a boast.

“Does the sun shine overmuch in England?” I asked.

“Its natural resources are of such immensity,” said the Englishman,
“that we do not care to have the sun shine upon us more than nine weeks
in the year. We like it to have freedom to visit barren lands like
Spain. At Madrid you vainglorious Spaniards showed me your tall spires
and palaces glittering finely in this element; but that is no more than
the reflection of heaven after all. The sun you will notice is a part
of the firmament, not of Spain. Now, in London, if a fog arises on us,
that element is native to our island kingdom; and though a modest thing
in itself there is none to dispute with us for its possession. There
you have the true sterling mettle of the English character.”

“Well, Sir Richard,” said I, being determined to challenge his swollen
ideas of his nation to the best of my power; “according to the ancient
chronicles, the beauty of our Spanish ladies hath been sung by poets
from the earliest times. Yet I could never hear that those of England
were so celebrated.”

“Thou never wilt, vainglorious one. Have I not told you that we English
are the chastest people on the face of the globe? But this is one of
those matters of delicacy in which you people of a foreign nationality
have not been bred to delight. In England the adorable fair are so
jealous in reputation that they would blush to have their names abroad
at the instance of a poet or any other rogue in a hose and jerkin. And
as for beauty, my youthful Don, the virtue of an English maid breeds
in her damask cheek the chaste tint of lilies, and therein is the fair
reflection of her soul.”

From this our discourse, reader, you will gather that although right
was upon my side, by some odd flaw of my constitution I was unable to
enforce it. This nimble-minded foreigner had always an answer to serve
his occasion, which upon its face was so fair-seeming that it stood
his need. But in many of his arguments he permitted himself such a
notorious subtlety that I could not but wonder how one who had taken
virtue for his guide could walk upon paths so perilous.

It was seven o’clock of the morning of the fifth day of our journey
that we came to Toledo. I shall ask those who have not seen it to
believe that it is a wonderful fair city, and an honour to the land
that made it so; while those who have will stand my surety, for I do
not see how the eye of man can hold two views upon the subject. And I
mention the noble grandeur of this city without any reference to my
heart and sentiment, for, as you are presently to hear, I spent some of
the darkest hours of my life behind its walls.

We halted at a large inn that lay between the mighty ancient palace of
the Moors and the church of San Juan de los Reyes, and had an admirable
breakfast. And we were in need of it, since we had been riding hard
all night. Now, we had no sooner come to this inn, which was more
considerable than any in which we had lain, than I was sensible of a
change in the demeanour of my companion. In our journey through the
wilderness he had conversed with me familiarly, had treated me as equal
as in accordance with my birth; but no sooner were we come into this
fair city and this good inn than he fell into hectoring speech, as
though I were a menial, and whispered to me privily to call him my lord.

“But, Sir Richard Pendragon,” I protested, “your degree does not
warrant me in it.”

“By my hand!” said he, “you must not talk of degree to me, you varlet.
Do you not know that in England any person who has a king’s blood under
his doublet is called a lord by courtesy.”

To this I demurred not a little, but Sir Richard Pendragon would brook
no denial.

“A king’s blood,” said he, “takes a courtesy title wherever it goes. If
I lie in Dresden I am called your excellency; at Rome, monseigneur; the
same at Paris; in Persia, in Russia, in Turkey, throughout the length
and breadth of Europe and Asia I am allowed my merit.”

In the end I was fain to submit to these considerations, although I
confess it irked me sorely to apply such a title to one who, according
to his style, was no more than a knight. But I had to content myself
with Sir Richard Pendragon’s own reflection that a king’s blood
is subject to no precedent, and by its own virtue confers its own
nobility. And certainly had he been a prince of the blood-royal of his
country, his conduct at this inn could not have been more remarkable.
I had to eat at another table; he even went so far as to swear at me
roundly in a foreign jargon; yet the thing that hurt me was, that he
was careful to let those who heard him know that his servant was a
scion of an old and honourable Spanish family.

“I think, good Don,” he said in my private ear, “your condition would
warrant me in looking upon you as what the French call an equerry. It
would not come amiss if you served behind my chair at meals, laying a
white cloth across your arm and setting the various dishes before me
with a solemn demeanour. And I would have you say ‘yes, my lord,’ and
‘no, your lordship,’ in a rather louder voice, in order that there
should be no mistake about it. It will not sound amiss in the ears of
innkeepers in a large way of trade, and that sort of people.”

After our meal, which in these circumstances had not given me so much
satisfaction as I had hoped, we made for the castle of the duke, five
good leagues off. Our way was set across the noble bridge of Alcantara,
whose arches span the Tagus. With a proud heart I commended this fair
thing to the notice of my companion; and though he stroked his beard
and confessed it was not amiss for Spain, he declared it could not
compare with what was modestly called the Fleet Ditch that was in
London.

As we crossed this bridge we could see clearly, a long distance away,
the white castle of the duke, sitting grand and solitary upon one of
those brown and rugged hills that make a girdle round the city. And the
sight of this brave pile, standing proud upon its promontory, clad in
the young beams of the sun, set all my heart in joy; for the contour of
the great house that was before me was in tune with my aspirations and
lent a proper semblance to my dreams.



CHAPTER X

OF OUR COMING TO THE DUKE OF MONTESINA AND HIS HOUSE UPON THE HILL


“OH, look, Sir Englishman!” I cried, in the immodesty of my soul. “Do
you not see those tall white walls that crown yonder precipice? Look at
the beams of the morning on each spire and turret. Do they not smile
and beckon? Look at those soldiers with flashing corslets marching
upon the outer scarp. Do you not see their halberds glistening and
the golden sheen upon their caps? Do they not feed your heart, Sir
Englishman, these symbols of renown and victory?”

Indeed, all the majesty of power and the high-hearted genius of
war and lofty enterprise passed before my eyes that morning in the
spring. Hitherto my life was laid among the mountains in the north,
where in one-and-twenty years the bravest things presented to it were
monasteries, in themselves grand and severe, yet calling with no
trumpet to the blood; and now and then some stained and ragged soldier,
maimed and overborne, returning to his native parts. But now that my
soul was filled with images of martial businesses, which never fail to
delight an ardent nature, the sight thrilled in my veins like music;
and as I stood upon the bridge of Alcantara, with my heart attuned to a
strange yearning of desire, I rejoiced so greatly in the life that God
had given me, that looking far unto those hills on which was set this
castle, I thought I saw His face shining between the distant mountains
and the yet more distant heavens.

“Sir Richard Pendragon,” I said, in the ecstasy of contemplation of the
future and its store, “limn that surprising lady that is daughter to
the duke; for I am here to woo her with courage, constancy, and high
thoughts. You understand me?”

“I understand you for a beggar,” said the Englishman, with a laugh and
a short grunt.

“My purse is bankrupt,” said I, “but there is blood in my heart and a
sword by my leg; and, good Sir Richard Pendragon, if you could look
behind my purposes, you would say I had no poverty whatever.”

“Well now,” said he, “if you had so much as three pesetas in the world,
which you’ve not, I would wager that amount against you that if you
could obtain the ear of the duke--and even to do that you will have
to tread as warily as a young dog fox stealing down a hedgerow upon a
morning in October--he will either pull your ears or cut your throat
when you mention his daughter. Why, if he hath a miniard goodly wench
with a rounded chin and a neat ankle, hath she no suitors, varlet? Are
there no princes and noblemen and foreigners of consideration, with the
blood of kings under their doublets, to woo this piece of the rib of
Adam? Would they not come to this castle with the blowing of horns and
the waving of banners, with companies of soldiers wearing their livery?
Think of the valour of their performances, good varlet; the treasure
in their chests; the breadth of their dominions. And then Master Don
What-does-he-call-himself--a country youth with his shoes clouted by
the village cobbler, a very beggar without a dole in his wallet, a raw
Hodge or bumpkin, as we say in our direct English parlance, with a pair
of hose too small in the shank and a coat laced with steel already past
its meridian--this mad fellow comes forward and speaks to the duke of
his daughter! If I do not die of a fluxion, may I forget the savour of
burnt sack!”

Now though I was so derided by the Englishman, he had so poor an
opinion of all persons, with one notable exception, that I did not pay
him that heed which perhaps I ought to have done. Yet I will confess
that the higher we ascended the steep road that wound in and out to the
gate of the castle, the more was my mind engaged by the notion that his
words had made to take shape in it; for he knew the world famously,
and there might be sooth in what he said, since, after all, I had only
my pedigree, good as it was, and a stout heart to recommend me to the
duke’s service.

As we rode up into the shadow of those walls, that were now sheer and
massive over our heads, Sir Richard Pendragon bent towards me and
said,--

“Miguel, be advised by an elderly soldado. Get you back to Toledo city,
sell your horse, which is as old as the moon, buy yourself an orange
basket, take your stance at the shadiest corner of the Plaza del Toros,
and be content with a modest annuity. You can then pay the true friend
that addresses you the hundred crowns that are his due for launching
you out of your native element into this broad and magnificent world.
The sun is a good thing, so are the stars, so are the rivers and
mountains, so is yonder palace of the Moriscoes, so is this castle
that lies before us; and when you beget children you will be able to
say that you have looked on all these things in your youth. But I pray
you, my son, not to dwell upon them here. Return to some humbler walk,
good Don; for if you adventure through these white gates flanked with
grinning dragons made out of pumice stone, that sanguine and youthful
spirit may get such an overthrow as will cripple it for years. At
present, my young companion, you are of no account in the world. Now go
your ways, like a good boy, and sell the wind-galled, curb-hocked, and
bespavined old bone-bag that bears you.”

“Good Sir Richard Pendragon,” I said stoutly, “I have no fear of my
reception before the duke. My sword is not much, but he shall have it
for his use.”

“Much!” said the Englishman; “much is a large word for nothing. Get an
orange basket, my son; and I pray you not to come into the presence of
his grace before you have grown a beard. He is a whimsical old fellow,
and yet so haughty that he might cut off your ears if you caused him to
laugh excessively.”

“Pray have no qualms, Sir Richard. I will speedily obtain an audience
of this grandee, and will look to it that he does not laugh at me too
much.”

Being extremely upon my mettle, I rapped smartly with the hilt of my
sword upon the massive gate.

When the Englishman saw that no heed was paid to my repeated blows, he
laughed in a short, dry fashion, which gave me a feeling of discomfort.

“By your leave, you man of wisdom,” said he, “and advancing my poor
opinion with that reserve that is its merit, I believe I spy a chain
and padlock to this gate.”

I was fain to confess myself puzzled when my eye fell on these
accompaniments.

“I am thinking, my son,” said Sir Richard, “although, to be sure, it
is no more than a whim or a notion of mine, that you might be called
to wait six days for an answer to your summons, for by its situation
I should judge it to be a gate that is opened once a week; of a
Wednesday, for the kitchen-maids to sally out at and wash their linen
down below in the Tagus. And I would respectfully urge, although this
again is no more than a whim or a notion, that the grand entrance is
along this path half a furlong to the left; at least, if it be not so,
it hath changed its place since I was here last June.”

It put me out of humour to reflect that I had not used my observation
more shrewdly, for as soon as I received this information, which the
Englishman conveyed to me in a mocking manner, I was able to perceive
that behind the gate the patio was empty, instead of thronging soldiers
and activity. Therefore we turned our horses into the path he had
proposed, and stayed them presently before a gate far handsomer. And
no sooner had I set my sword to this than it fell back before my hand
and a very grave personage was standing with his hat off before my
bridle-rein and inquiring my good pleasure.

That he was a person of consideration was clear enough. His mien was
extraordinarily dignified, and to all that I said he listened politely;
but when I asked for an audience of the duke he referred me to one of
a surpassing stoutness, who came waddling up to us as we discoursed
together. This gentleman, although extremely heavy and slow of speech,
proved just as civil, and gave me to understand that he was no less
a person than Don Luiz, the duke’s gentleman-usher. But when I spoke
of an audience he bowed very low, and yet looked at me in a kind of
sorrow, for he said,--

“Sir, you crave the impossible. The levee was yesterday, and a week
must pass before you can be admitted to the next.”

“Sir,” I said, “I have travelled from the Asturias upon no other
errand.”

Don Luiz shook his head, and deplored the fact that this could not help
the matter. And all this time the Englishman was laughing in such a
manner that I feared he must pitch straight off his horse.

“I would have you to believe, Don Luiz,” said I, with an urgency that
was increased by the behaviour of the Englishman, “that I am one Miguel
Jesus Maria de Sarda y Boegas, a name antecedent, if you please, to the
Moorish invasion, and as favourably looked on as any in the northern
provinces.”

Still, in spite of the earnestness with which I mentioned this, the
portly and consequential Don Luiz stood as mute as a stone, not so much
as twitching his lips or abating his glance in any particular. Indeed
it would seem, from the manner in which he enfolded me in his sleepy
looks, that the style of my clothes and their condition were a more
imminent matter than my business and descent.

“Next week, sir,” was all he deigned to reply, and pointed to the gate
for his final answer. Feeling myself to be powerless against this
refusal, which was yet very arbitrary, resentment began to stir in me.

“Don Luiz,” I said firmly, “I cannot leave the precincts of this castle
until I have had audience of its master. I have journeyed expressly
from the Asturias to speak with him, and I can assure you it is not my
custom to permit anything to interpose between my mind and its declared
intention.”

Yet, notwithstanding the importunity of my tone, it left Don Luiz quite
impassive. Indeed ere long he undertook to show me another side to this
affair. He summoned two or three of the soldiers that were marching
up and down the patio, and in short terms ordered them to conduct
me to the gate. And I think I should have been taken there in this
ignominious fashion had not at this moment Sir Richard Pendragon, who
all this while had been consumed with hilarity, addressed the portly
gentleman-usher.

“Don Luiz,” said he, “I would have you pay no heed to this poor mad
varlet that is my squire. You see, Don Luiz, this immoderate, raving
squire of mine once travelled in my suite to the Asturias, and in
those altitudes he beheld a maid of pedigree to whom his wayward
fancy turned. And that matter deranged any little wit he did enjoy;
for he kissed her in those altitudes underneath the moon, and since
that evening he has been a babbler. His conversation is now composed
of pedigrees, maidens, Asturias, and moonshine of a highly grievous
nature. It is pitiful, Don Luiz, yet to my mind there is a kind of
poetry in it also.”

Now Sir Richard Pendragon feigned this monstrous tale with such a
simplicity of look, and recited it with such a proper voice, that Don
Luiz was moved to credulity, and said, “How whimsical! Yet indeed, sir,
it does not surprise me, for I could discern from his address that he
had a maggot in his brain.”

“Faith, yes,” said Sir Richard, with a solemnity at which I marvelled,
“and it twists his poor mind into such odd and strange devices as you
would never believe. Why, if he sits at home at the castle, he either
plays mumchance all day by the buttery door or devises some ridiculous
melody upon the virginal that makes all the cook-maids shed tears, or,
stranger than that, Don Luiz, he will sit for hours playing snapdragon
with the wishbone of a fowl. And when I say to him, ‘Wherefore, Miguel,
should this quaintness be your chief employ?’ says he, with his eyes
full of tears, ‘Why, excellency, if I used my fingers it would be sure
to burn my hand.’ Did you ever hear an honest Christian Spaniard speak
the like, Don Luiz?”

“By my faith, sir, I did not,” said Don Luiz, betraying some tokens of
impatiency. “Might I trouble you, sir, to the extent of asking your
business?”

“To see your master, the duke, in audience.”

“Then, sir, my answer must, with all respect, hold the same with you as
with your twisted and unhappy squire.”

“I am afeared, Don Luiz,” said my strange companion with a look
of insolence that became him remarkably well, “your wits are so
accompanied by sack and butter that you do not take me in this affair.
I will see your master at once.”

“On Tuesday next, sir,” said the gentleman-usher. “Before then an
audience is out of the question.”

“I say I will see your master immediately,” said the Englishman. “Do
you go straightway and inform him that a messenger is at the gate who
hath ridden express from the King and is demanding audience.”

“The King!” exclaimed Don Luiz, while I held my breath at such a piece
of audacity.

“The King,” said Sir Richard Pendragon sternly. “The King, my master,
who holds the Duke of Montesina and all his minions in the hollow of
his hand. Do you go straightway and tell him that, Don Luiz.”

Upon this assertion the chamberlain delivered a humble apology, called
to the grooms to take our horses, conducted us to an antechamber with
the greatest promptitude, and went forth himself to bear the matter
to his master. As soon as I was alone with my companion in the fair
apartment we had entered I began to tremble violently, and said to the
outrageous foreigner,--

“This is indeed a fine pickle, Sir Englishman! We shall certainly be
thrown into a dungeon, or perchance shall lose our heads. No prince of
Spain will forgive you unless you make good your words.”

“You are a mad varlet,” said the Englishman; “you are as mad as nine
men’s morris.”

“The madness is with you, sir, in this grievous and terrible matter.”

“Ah, my young companion,” said the Englishman, “what a vain fellow thou
art to go in quest of the Princess Fortune without a knowledge of the
world. The time is ripe for me to give you a watchword, my son; your
excellent father appears not to have mentioned it. Learn to speak in
a loud voice. Fail in no enterprise from a disregard of that motto,
and in lieu of a vulgar death upon the gallows, which is the natural
destination of every snuffler that goes about paltry chewing his words,
you will die an eminently Christian death upon the field of battle, or
in your bed with your favourite bawd soothing your pillows with hot and
bitter tears.”

Before I could derive any store of fortitude from this advice wherewith
to meet the grave ordeal that was now before us both, Don Luiz returned
with the information that the duke, his master, was graciously pleased
to receive us in audience.

Now, whether it was the sting of the rebuffs that I had already
suffered during that ill-fated day, or the notion that I was become as
a branded madman by the tongue of calumny, or whether it was the odd
manner of our entrance, I cannot say, but what I know is this--I felt
the sweat creep upon my brow as I made my way into the presence of this
august grandee. I followed close upon the heels of Don Luiz and my most
singular companion. We passed through several spacious and gorgeous
apartments which were clad in great richness. Never had I seen so much
magnificence before. The mere presence of so much splendour seemed to
daunt me, for notwithstanding my birth and my father’s honour, in my
country suit all dulled with dust, and my old boots, I felt myself to
be but little better than a rustical fellow in surroundings of this
kind.

Yet the Englishman, although his dress in its inconsistency was
scarcely above my own, and though his pretext was so abominably false
that it had only to be exposed to place his life in jeopardy, was just
as much upon his ease in this dangerous place as if he had been abroad
in the plain. Without removing his bonnet or showing the least concern
for the dignity of the palace, he uttered a ribald joke in the ear of
Don Luiz and spoke to him of the weather.

When at last we were ushered into the presence of the duke I tried to
muster my courage, for I felt that the great moment of my life was
come. Striving to make an honourable appearance I bore my head high
and held myself in the most martial manner I could assume, and through
the haze that oppressed my eyes I strove to stand worthy of my quest
and the noble lady I was come to serve. You will understand, gentle
reader, that all depended on the fair impression I must contrive to
make upon the great nobleman who was about to receive me. Yet I was
fain to reflect that I must have done better justice to my birth and
breeding, which were all the credentials I had to offer, had I not been
so unluckily accompanied. I am sure no one could have been more deeply
sensible of the disadvantage of such a companionship. The flippant
behaviour of Sir Richard Pendragon must have sorely abated the grace
of my bearing, since such a mode of entry as he adopted before a great
personage must have been wholly to the detriment of any who followed in
his train. Indeed this extraordinary person was humming a catch as he
swaggered like a common ruffler, with his bonnet on, into the presence
of his grace, the Duke of Montesina.

The private chamber in which the duke sat was smaller than the others
through which we had passed. It was draped heavily with gorgeous
tapestries, and instead of rushes upon the floor there was a rich
Arabian carpet. The first thing I perceived was a noble painting of the
Holy Virgin. The duke was sitting in a gilded chair placed on a daïs
near a window through which streamed the beams of the bright sun. He
was engaged upon a refection of light wine and oat cake, and was alone
save for a dwarf who mowed at us behind the chair of his master.

The duke was an old man with a beard of silver, frail, and little in
his person, and of an ascetic, yet, as I make bold to think, a somewhat
peevish countenance. He rose upon our entry and bowed in so sublime a
manner as at once to make it clear that here was the pink and mirror
of a Spanish gentleman; one whose mind was grave and lofty, and whose
person was garnished with fine graces. A piece of old punctilio he was,
according to my companion, yet when he left his chair and took a few
steps towards us, to confer upon us an additional grace of welcome, his
form seemed to have been wedded to silk and silver all its days, such
was the ease with which it bore them; he seemed to move to music; while
when he brought himself to business, it appeared to my disordered mind,
dazzled as it was with so much glamour, that his lightest word became
a proclamation and his frown an executioner. Sir Richard Pendragon,
however, was far from having this awe of him. It filled me with dismay
to see this person of foreign nationality passage with the duke for all
the world as if he were of an equal condition.

“I trust I find the grace of your lordship in pretty good health,” said
the English giant; and it relieved me much to observe that he had the
good manners to pull off his bonnet, and to bow not ungracefully when
he addressed the duke in this fashion.

“I find myself in good health, I thank you, sir,” said the duke coldly
and simply. “You bear a communication from my nephew Castile, I
understand?”

“I am glad your excellency understands that,” said the Englishman, “for
burn my five wits if I do!”

“Will you deign to explain this matter?” said the duke, and it turned
me faint in my spirit to see a sudden light of anger flame across his
eyes.

“If I mentioned your nephew Castile, may I never drink sack out of a
bombard again,” said the Englishman.

“Bimbos,” said the duke, turning to the dwarf, who was grinning like
a jackanapes behind him, “do you go to Don Luiz and bring him here
instantly.”

It was clear that the duke was a man of choler by the irascibility of
his words.

Don Luiz came immediately. There was trepidation in his mien.

“This person,” said the duke, “informs us that he bears no
communication from our nephew the Castilian.”

“Under your favour, excellency,” said the Englishman, “your mind
although virtuously given and an ornament to your age and country,
appears to have led you into some sort of confusion. English Richard,
honest man, never spoke of Castile your nephew; he would scorn to speak
of such a scurvy rogue, but rather did he mention your lordship’s lord
and master.”

“My lord,” said the fat Don Luiz, speaking with a most ponderous
impressiveness, “my words shall be these. This gentleman informed me
at the gate that he was the bearer of a message from the King, and on
that ground demanded audience in quite a peremptory manner.”

“So I did, brother, so I did,” said the Englishman. “You cursed
Spaniards are so dull that I am obliged to speak peremptory if I speak
at all.”

“Further, my lord,” said Don Luiz, passing over this scandalous
interruption with immense disdain, “he declared himself to be the
emissary of that great King who at this moment held, as it were, your
lordship’s grace in the hollow of his hand. Now, it was perfectly clear
to me, your lordship, that there is only one king whose might is of
this nature, which is him of Castile, your lordship’s nephew. Thus,
under your grace’s favour, was I justified, I think.”

“Ods my life!” said the duke, addressing my companion with the greatest
irascibility, “if I find you have perverted your speech in this
particular, or that you think to make a toy of such as I, sirrah, I
will undertake to show you how far you are astray by having you broke
upon the wheel.”

When the angry duke spoke these last terrible words he exalted his
voice into such an accent as rendered them truly affrighting to my
ears. Straight I fell into a violent trembling on the Englishman’s
account; but he, steadfast man, did not abate a whit of his easy
smiling. As he looked at the threatful duke his red eyes seemed to be
full of a furtive and whimsical humour.

“No, by my soul,” he said, “this is not politeness, at least as we of
England understand that quality. Wheel? No matter where I travel in
this unholy land of Spain, the parish that I come to is a scurvy one.
Wheel? Duke or donkey driver, it is nothing to the matter, all are
tainted with incivility. Wheel? Why, duke, my message is ‘Be thou of
good courage,’ and He who sends it thee is that great King of Heaven
who holds thee in the hollow of His hand. Do you pause and think upon
it, duke.”

The duke obeyed him in this particular, for certes he paused and
thought upon it much. And while this he did with a deal of gravity, the
wheel rose up before my eyes and I could feel my bones being broken on
it. For was ever such audacity since the beginning of the world!



CHAPTER XI

OF A GRIEVOUS HAP


THOUGH an old little man, wizened like a pea, and peevish in his
manners, the duke was wonderfully impressive in his look. He stood up
as straight as a tree, and kept peering at the Englishman with a grave
eye, as if in meditation upon the drastic form of his punishment.
Yet all of a sudden, and quite strangely and oddly, a sharp kind of
crackling and barking came out of him; as near, I suppose, to a chuckle
of mirth as one of such dignity could allow himself to emit.

“Ha! ha!” he cackled. “Ods myself! good fellow, this is a roguish jest
of yours. But daring, don’t you think, but daring? Yet a roguish jest.”

So great was my concern for the exceeding delicacy of the issue that
at first the words of the duke seemed of no account. My mind could not
address itself to their meaning, but could only marvel that so great a
man should repeat his phrases.

“And why, sirrah,” asked the duke, “am I to be so especially of good
courage at this season? My situation hath taken no kinder turn of late,
so far as I can tell. Why must I be so cheerful then?”

“Because,” was the reply of this audacious foreigner, “Richard
Pendragon, knight of England, hero of an hundred fields, is here to
make you an offer of his service. This two and a quarter yards by a
yard and a half of brawn and valiancy hath left a monstrous quantity
of the kingly blood that flows beneath his doublet on the battle meads
of Europe. How many a pretty daisy hath fed its damask on the azure
blood of a Pendragon! This gentle knight in question is also pretty
well at fighting, duke, for you shall search the three continents to
match this modest swaggerer at sword, broadsword, sword and buckler,
sword and target, and above all, and more particularly in a private
brawl, with that peerless weapon, the Italian rapier of Ferrara steel.
And mark you also, duke, there is a genius in his handling of the sweet
Toledo blade. As for the mind of this incomparable character, it shines
as brightly as his steel, for you will notice that his forehead rises
perpendicular in the true Pendragon manner, and therefore he is a child
of stratagem.”

You will suppose that I watched the passaging of the duke and this
singular Sir Richard Pendragon with the gravest solicitude. There
never was such a whimsically assorted pair: the small old man, the
duke, one of the first gentlemen of his age, so well appointed in his
dress, so fortunate in his person, so sedate in his mien for all his
querulousness, which in one of less consideration might have incurred
another name; the Englishman monstrous in his growth, gross and
irregular in form and countenance, his clothes patched and pieced into
the quaintest contexture. But beyond all this they were so opposed in
address; the duke ever majestical in spite of his peevishness, with a
highly musical civility in his speech, every word of which was simple,
clear, and urbane, the ideal for a gentleman; while this Englishman’s,
when it was not braggadocio and ruffling, with many uncomely foreign
accents in it, ran into conceits and picturesqueness of every sort, and
betraying a reverence for no man save the one who had all his worship.

Still the world is an incongruous place, as Don Ygnacio hath it, and
reconcilable to none of the laws that we know. Therefore this grandee
fell in with the whims of the mad Englishman, and kept turning the tail
of an eye upon him, which yet seemed to have too much dignity to laugh
outright at a cause so trivial; whilst to me, a gentleman of his own
race and nation, who knew the consideration that belonged to him, and
was careful to render it, he was as cold and unresponsive as one of the
walls of his castle.

Presently Sir Richard Pendragon so delighted the old gentleman with one
or two wonderfully cunning tricks of fence and manual dexterity, such
as spinning his sword in the air and catching the naked point in his
palm, and flicking buttons off the jerkin of the dwarf, that the duke
clapped his hands for pleasure with the glee of a child, although he
was one of the gravest rulers in Spain, and cried out heartily,--

“Brava, brava, sirrah! Now get thee to the buttery, and then do thou
come back, and show us again.”

At the mention of the honest word “buttery” Sir Richard Pendragon
turned upon his heel without delay, and made his way there with a haste
that to my mind ill became one of his degree, although I had begun to
doubt whether in his native country the title he bore was so eminently
honourable as it is in ours.

“A very whimsical fellow,” said the duke to Don Luiz as the Englishman
went forth. “He will serve to amuse us of a morning, and of an evening
too. By my faith, Luiz, this is a good fellow.”

“A good fellow, my lord, as your lordship has deigned to remark,” said
Don Luiz ponderously; “and I mind me that he has the name of a brave
and cunning man. He gave your grace’s nephew of Castile a great deal
of trouble a year ago with his bold and hardy band of adventurers.
According to report he has the name of a skilful captain, who is as
ingenious in his mind as he is warlike in his attributes.”

“That is well, Luiz,” said the duke. “I am pleased at this. See to it
that he hath thirty crowns a month, and do you give him the command of
our horse.”

Hearing this magnanimous and simple-hearted nobleman filled with the
praises of one who, whatever his merit, was yet unacquainted with the
true inner grace of the heart, my courage mounted in my veins, and
hope whispered many things it pleased me mightily to hear. Yet, when I
ventured to bespeak the duke, as I conceived in a mode highly proper,
he returned immediately to that formal gravity of mien which he had
worn when first I had come into his presence.

“Your lordship’s grace,” I began, “my name is Miguel Jesus Maria de
Sarda y Boegas, and of the natural blood of him who fought with Alban
II. against the Moor at Loja, at Lucena, and an hundred fields. I am,
I would have your lordship to believe, of the first families of our
Asturias; and hearing of the uneasy situation of your lordship in the
south, I have adventured from my native mountains to proffer to your
lordship my sword and service.”

“Don Miguel Jesus Maria de Sarda y Boegas,” said the duke, “I thank you
for them.”

“And, my lord, I would crave the gentle permission of your lordship
to serve your daughter, if daughter hath your grace, and rumour hath
not lied; for it is written among the precepts of my late father, Don
Ygnacio, that I should serve her, if served she is to be, as faithfully
as I am fain to serve her sire.”

Was ever man so cursed with the unlucky tongue within him! No sooner
had I dropped a word about his daughter than a lively purple ran into
his face, and that countenance which had been so gracious grew suddenly
so arrogant that I was filled with qualms.

“Are you a prince of the sangre azul of Spain, Don Miguel Jesus Maria
de Sarda y Boegas,” said he, “that you seek to serve my daughter?”

“Not a prince, my lord,” said I with proud humility, “but there is no
choicer blood than ours in the Asturias.”

“Then, sir, since you are not a prince, and you have made mention of my
daughter, our interview is at an end.”

“My lord, when I spoke of your lordship’s daughter, I spoke in
humility. Wherein have I had the unhappiness to offend the grace of
your lordship?”

“The offence is nature’s, sir, in not making you a prince,” said the
duke with a surprising choler. “I give you good day, Don Miguel.”

He bowed low, and the portly Don Luiz opened the door.

I found myself in the antechamber without the least recollection of
my coming there. Indeed, in such a degree was I embarrassed by the
duke’s anger that at first I did not know where I was or what I did.
I stood lost in wonder. I wondered at the duke, I wondered at myself,
but most of all I wondered at the world and its courses. I could not
believe that a man should be so affronted at so seemly a mention of his
daughter. I could have shed tears at this rebuff, and the deplorable
case in which I stood, but my father’s wisdom stole through my veins
like a balm, and I remembered that adversity is one of God’s stratagems
to test the temper of the least of His servants.

As I took my way to the gate of the castle with my feathers drooping,
I encountered the more fortunate Sir Richard Pendragon smiling at his
private thoughts and sucking sack off his beard.

“Hullo, good springald youth,” he said, “you have met your fall I
perceive. But, my young son of the Spains, I pray you to remember
that a man with a provincial manner should not speak to a duke of his
daughter. Sell oranges and make your fortune, for I fear that make it
otherwise you never will. But, my young companion, I pray you do not
take it too much amiss. There are many blows on the sconce to receive
as you go through the world. And let me tell you, Miguel, I am prone
to a tenderness in cases of grave, persistent, and determined folly.
And so, Miguel, I have a tenderness to thee. Fare thee well, my young
companion, and here is a purse containing eight crowns and an old
heirloom, for I am determined upon it that thou shall not suffer for a
start in life.”

These words were spoken not unkindly, and I was grateful to this
barbarian for speaking them; but I think I might have been grateful
had a dog so much as looked at me just then. And to my great
astonishment here was my old dogskin and my father’s patrimony and my
mother’s ring come back to me. But rejoiced as I was to get them again,
I deemed it wise that no questions should pass upon the subject.

I told a servant to fetch Babieca, and when he had brought him to me
he looked upon me askance because I did not vail him for the deed. I
rode forth of the gates with the sun shining in the blue with fierce
magnificence, and pointed my unprosperous course towards the city of
Toledo. As these latitudes were much farther to the south than any I
had been in before, I found the sun was even more against me than on
the ill-starred day I had started from my home. Thus in great dejection
of mind and body, I returned across the bridge of Alcantara, and in
my heart’s extremity cast a final glance at that noble and deluding
house, seated imperial on its promontory, beyond the yellow stretches
of the fields. It could hardly have been more fair to the eye than
formerly, yet now, because my fortunes looked another way and I had met
rejection, and this beautiful castle had been placed beyond my ken, it
seemed to take, even as I gazed, a thousand fresh glamours from the
sun, and grew so gorgeous and desirable as to mock me with each of its
gay turrets and pinnacles.

Overcome by the bitterness of my reflections, I checked my horse as
he picked his way delicately down the steep winding path, and turning
about, stood up in the saddle to confront that haughty palace that
offered me disdain. Raising my right arm, I cried, “Proud castle, mock
me if you please, but the hour shall dawn when you shall honour Miguel
Jesus Maria de Sarda y Boegas!”

Doubtless these words were vain, yet there was that in my heart that
seemed to give them warrant; and whether they made good the right to be
uttered will be made clear in the process of this history.

Upon coming into the town and reaching the Chapel of the Consummation,
I found a shady prospect beneath its walls. Tying Babieca to a railing,
I sat down to meditate upon the course of my affairs. It was clear that
I had much to learn before I might move with security into the world.
Sir Richard Pendragon, barbarous foreigner as he was, had taught me
already that we must learn to decipher the human character and its
manifold complexities ere the smiles of Fortune can requite those who
crave them. But at least, thought I, as I sought consolation of my
father’s never-failing wisdom, this is a vicarious world, in which our
material state is nothing, and of all things only an honest mind is
virtuous.

To such a degree did I console my heart with this reflection that for a
time I was put in a mood of philosophy. I was even led to consider that
my poverty was a worthy thing, a symbol of purity, for was it not an
evidence that my devices had not been of an unworthy nature? But, alas!
all too soon my ingenuity overthrew my fortitude: for I was reminded
by these thoughts that eight pieces of silver was my patrimony; that I
was a stranger in a foreign country; that I was unskilled in war and
knowledge; that I was hungry; that my cloak was wearing thin; that to
sleep upon the bare ground was to breed an ache in the bones; in fine,
that I was penniless and friendless, and was at the end of my five wits
to avert the soul and the body being torn asunder. Looking up, however,
I beheld the placid, kindly face of the amiable Babieca; and then was I
taken with a new resource.



CHAPTER XII

OF ADVERSITY. OF A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE. OF A FAIR STRANGER


TO rob oneself of a friend is to commit a felony against the heart; and
where is the man who can afford to do that? The pangs of the heart,
believe me, are less to be supported than those of the stomach; for I
groaned under the stings of both in this the season of my adversity. A
pennyworth of bread will avail against the one, but in that other case
a man must outlive his recollection, and forget a thousand deeds of
kindness to heal the breach left gaping in his gratitude.

This is why I looked so long at the gentle Babieca without making a
decision. To part with him was necessary to the lives of us both, as I
could furnish food and lodging for neither; but much as I looked into
his quiet eyes, or gazed upon his shapeliness, or stroked his friendly
nose, I was as barren of expedients as I was of fortune or good
prospects.

It was indeed a wrench to sell this honest creature, and I let the best
part of the day go by ere I could persuade myself to suffer it. Then,
gathering up Babieca’s bridle, I led him through the town to make money
of his qualities. Coming to the market square, I asked a water-seller
to direct me to a dealer in horses. This he did--to one Cacheco, whom
he recommended stoutly as a man of purity in trade.

I found the Señor Cacheco in a corner of the market-place, seated
such an enviable distance in the shade that I saw the sagacity of his
character at once; for I tell you, reader, that any person who can make
good his claims to a spot so sheltered against the sweating market
hordes is not by any means to be looked on lightly. His stock consisted
of three or four ponies of an inferior sort and an ass that had the
mange.

This worthy was greatly at his ease beneath a pony’s belly, a
situation that gave him some protection from the flies. His face was
one that hardly invited confidence in his rectitude, being nothing
like so pretty as the reference I had received; besides he squinted
villainously, and would not look at you straightly out of the middle
of the eyes, but leered out of the corners. He got up slowly, yawned,
stretched his limbs, approached me with a sidling gait, and asked if I
wished to make a purchase.

“On the contrary, I have this horse to sell.”

“Oh, it’s a horse,” said he. “I would never have guessed that, I am
sure, now. He makes such a noise when he draws his breath that I
supposed he was related to the windmill family.”

I rated Cacheco for this impudence, and told him that he lied.

“He is as sound as a trumpet, you rogue, and I’ll defy the Devil to
prove that Babieca is otherwise.”

“Take him to the Devil, then,” said the fellow coarsely, “and see if he
will buy him. Besides, he hath a curby hock.”

I admitted that to be the case, but spoke about his pedigree.

“Pedigree!” cried the rude fellow. “My business is in horses, not in
pedigrees. Am I a man of fortune, then, that I should buy a pedigree? I
will give you five crowns.”

“Five crowns, you rogue! Why, he has been in my family for years!”

“An heirloom, I see,” said the horse-dealer. “Old Mutacho, the dealer
in the antique, is over there across the market. You will find him fast
asleep like a tortoise, with his head resting against the thigh piece
of the Cid.”

In the height of this altercation I heard a titter of laughter. Feeling
hot and discomposed already with an argument in which I showed to
no advantage, I looked about to see from whom it might proceed. It
surprised me to discover that I was providing a spectacle for one who
appeared to make no secret of the fact that he was enjoying it.

“You are amused, sir?” I said, addressing this person sternly, for I
felt myself upon the verge of a passion.

“Very,” said he, at his leisure and in a soft voice.

“May I ask, sir, in what particular I have the happiness to amuse you?”

“My dear friend,” said this person, more at his leisure than ever, “it
would take me a long while to render it clear to you, and the heat is
excessive; but if you will do me the honour to repair to my lodgings, I
may be able to explain the whole matter over a bottle of wine. And may
I pray you to bring the admirable Babieca, for next to the friendship
of his master I am sure I shall value his before anything else in the
world.”

Now, in the circumstances, such an address was extremely singular, but
the courtesy with which it was accompanied was so fine, and the air and
bearing of the person who employed it were so admirable, that I knew at
once that I had been accosted by a man of birth. Taking off his hat,
which was adorned with a long white plume, he bowed to the ground; and
while I hoped that my demeanour was in nowise behind his own, I could
not refrain from feeling how much honour his true Spanish politeness
did him.

“You are of Castile, sir, I am sure?”

“Ah no,” said he, in a soft, lisping accent, “I can make no claim to be
one of your adorable nation.”

“Then, sir, may I ask to whom I have the honour of paying my addresses?”

“Truly. I am Monsieur le Comte de Nullepart, Marquis de Outre le Mer,
Sieur des Champs Elysées. And you, sir--and you?”

“I am one Miguel Jesus Maria de Sarda y Boegas, a name which has yet to
declare itself, Sir Count, in this part of our peninsula, but which has
been held in high esteem in our northern province of Asturias for many
hundreds of years.”

“We are choicely met, Don Miguel, and if you will do me the signal
honour of accompanying me to supper, I shall be the happiest man in the
world.”

Upon an invitation of such courtesy you will readily suppose, good
reader, it was not for me to refuse. For his musical speech, the
delicate breeding of his air, the distinction of his dress, sombre and
chaste, yet handsome and well fitting, all proclaimed his quality.
His face looked melancholy, yet now and again a tender and sweet smile
would suffuse it, and change it altogether as if by the magic of poetry.

The companion I had found in this strange and providential fashion
would not hear of my parting with Babieca, although within five minutes
of our acquaintance I must have revealed to him my bitter poverty,
for he was such a one to whom the proudest bosom unfolds its secrets.
There was some kind of enchantment in his face, and I took no shame
from telling him that I was in the world alone, and that fortune had
rebuffed me.

“Ah, Fortune, Fortune!” said he. “She is the Proud Princess whom we woo
all our days, and who kills us with melancholy because she will have
none of us. Did you ever meet one, my dear Don Miguel, upon whom she
had smiled?”

“No, Sir Count,” said I, “I have yet to have that happiness. She did
not smile upon my father, and she hath not smiled upon me.”

“The proud jade is a chimera,” said the Count of Nullepart. “We seek
her all our days, and when at last we have come up with her, and we
press her to our bosom--lo! she is not, and we find ourselves embracing
the air. But come, my dear Don Miguel, we will eat in our inn, and
leave philosophy until after supper.”

I know not, reader, what providence it was that brought the Count of
Nullepart and myself together, but as I led Babieca to this inn at
his behest, he linked his arm through mine, and he became my brother.
The tender melancholy of his smile, the music of his speech, lulled
my mind not only with the superiority of his condition, but also with
the nobility of his intelligence. Strangely his course was pointed to
that fonda at which I had eaten my breakfast in the doubtful company of
Sir Richard Pendragon early that day. Perhaps, however, this was not
so remarkable, because the hostelry of “The Three Feathers” was the
largest and fairest inn in the whole of the city.

It was with very different feelings that I sat at table in the company
of this true gentleman, to those with which I had waited on the good
pleasure of one whose gentility depended on his name. The fare of which
we partook had been prepared with delicacy; the innkeeper served us in
person with a deference which had its root in a desire to please my
companion; the wine was of the first quality and was chosen well; and
the discourse that flowed from the lips of the Count of Nullepart was
the most charming of all--that of one who knows the world and is minded
to forget it.

“There are no adventures outside of the soul,” he said, toying with his
cup of wine with white, slender, and tapering hands. “What are these
poor five wits of ours in comparison with the infinite senses of the
inner nature? We lock our teeth, yet taste nothing; we open our eyes,
yet see nothing; we incline our ears, yet hear nothing; we excite our
nostrils, yet smell no perfume; we prick ourselves with a dagger, yet
there is nothing we can feel. It is the same with this Princess Fortune
that we talk about: we seek her forever, yet find her not. There is no
princess, my friend, there is no princess.”

“I think, Sir Count,” said I, “the point is debatable. My father went
in quest of her, yet did not find her, and I have not found her myself;
but one of these days I will--I am determined upon it.”

“And when you have done so, dear Don Miguel, you will press her to your
bosom, and she will melt in the air.”

After our supper (which, according to my taste, was of the most perfect
kind), the Count of Nullepart drew a flageolet from his pocket and
played a melody. It was very graceful, low-voiced, and melancholy, and
being his own composition, was performed with the true delicacy of the
amateur.

The hours chased one another away, for the Count of Nullepart had
a full mind and spoke of many things. When there came a lull in
our converse he would take up the flageolet again and improvise
other melodies. Or he would call for the dice and throw a main for
amusement’s sake, for I had nothing better than Babieca to wager, and
with our northern caution I was unwilling to risk my all on a single
cast.

I know not what hour of the evening it was, but it must have been hard
by to midnight, when our curiosity, which hitherto had been wholly
engaged with one another, was diverted by the arrival of a guest. My
companion was improvising an air on his instrument, when something of
a commotion was heard at the door, and to our surprise a lady without
attendance stepped into the inn and called for the servants in a loud
clear voice.

The manner of her entrance caused the Count of Nullepart to lay
his flageolet on the table, and to regard the fair intruder with a
curiosity equal to that she had awakened in me. Fair she was indeed,
since we could discern enough of her face to tell us so much. She was
both young and frail, hardly more than a child, and she was habited
in a coarse grey riding-dress that was covered with dust. But she had
a most proud and fearless face; and when the landlord came forward in
answer to her summons, in spite of her plain and almost rustic attire,
she addressed him with so much insolence that she might have been a
queen.

“Fellow,” she said, “my horse hath a shoe cast. Put him to bed with
some oats and good straw, and do you see to it that a smith is summoned
at five of the morning. At six I go upon my journey.”

The landlord bowed with proper humility, and declared that he would
attend her commands.

“That is well,” said she. “And do you bring me some food, for I have
not broken my fast since an hour before noon.”

When the landlord had gone about these behests, she sank down on
a settle in a condition of extreme weariness, threw down her whip
petulantly, drew off her riding gauntlets, and flung them upon the
floor.

In the meantime the Count of Nullepart had filled his cup out of the
last of the numerous bottles of wine to which we had yielded ourselves,
and he now carried it across the room with a wonderful air.

“Madam,” he said, proffering this beaker with an indescribable grace,
“if I may serve you, you will make me happy.”

“I thank you, friend,” she said, accepting the goblet, and sipping the
wine without any hesitation at all.

“With your permission, madam,” said the Count of Nullepart, “I will
go forth and see to it that your horse is bedded worthily and hath a
supper of oats.”

“Do so, friend, and I will thank you for your service.”

The little lady spoke with the sweet insolence of one who is accustomed
to be served.

While the Count of Nullepart was away on this errand of courtesy, I was
fain to cudgel my brains to find out who this fair stranger might be.
That a young gentlewoman should ride into Toledo at midnight without
attendance must have been an unheard-of matter. Yet again, her quality
was not in anywise declared in her dusty and rumpled habit; but in its
despite, her air, her bearing, the adorable beauty of her countenance,
made her the most enchanting figure upon whom it had ever been my hap
to set my eyes. To have encountered two such persons in a single day as
the Count of Nullepart and this lady was a clear proof that fortune was
not so entirely unpropitious as she seemed.

When the Count of Nullepart returned, which he did very soon, he set
himself to bestir the landlord in the matter of the lady’s supper; and
he besought her to accept a share of our table, which was the most
favourably situated in the room.

The lady accepted every office that the count rendered her with the
most charming and easy complaisance in the world, and when she came and
took a seat with us, I observed with a thrill of delight that, fair as
she looked from a distance, when she came near she appeared still more
enchanting. Every line in the youthful face was moulded in the most
sensitive manner. When a serving-maid had brought her supper, her eyes
fell on the flageolet that lay on the table. She gave it to me, and
said,--

“Play a melody. It will amuse me while I eat.”

I had to protest, shyly enough, I am afraid, that I had no skill in
this instrument; whereon she lifted her eyes imperiously to the Count
of Nullepart, and said,--

“You play a melody to amuse me while I eat.”

Immediately the count broke into one of the choicest of his
performances, and did it so rarely, with such elegance and mastery, as
to make it divine; and yet I believe it amused him vastly, that the
sweet little madam in whose behalf his handsome face was empurpled, and
at whose command the veins swelled in his neck, paid not the least heed
to his efforts, but munched away ravenously at the bread and meat that
was laid before her, and sipped her wine with perfect unconcern.

Since that distant evening in the inn, whenever I have met a lady who
is reputed to be peerless in beauty, before committing myself to an
opinion upon the subject of her charms, my mind has reverted to this
delectable creature. And I have yet to observe one that could compare
with this perfection of youthful womanhood. It did not matter into what
courses her hunger led her, nought could lessen the austere fascination
of a countenance which was tempered a little by the unconscious
coquetry of its glance.

When she had eaten and had drunk her wine, she waved an imperious hand
to the Count of Nullepart to cease his exertions; and although it was
clear to us she had not heeded a note of his performance, she said
calmly, “Friend, I thank you. You play very fairly well.”

Had the Count of Nullepart not been one of the greatest breeding, I am
sure he must have been consumed with laughter.

The little lady then turned to me, and said with an air that it is the
business of all to obey, “Fetch me the innkeeper, if you please.”

I obeyed the behest with alacrity; and when the landlord came into her
presence, she ordered the best sleeping-chamber in the inn to be set in
readiness for her use, since it was her goodwill and pleasure to take a
few hours’ rest.

The innkeeper was obliged, with some agitation, to inform her that, so
far from being able to place the best apartment at her disposal, he
could not even place the worst, as one and all were in occupation.

“Then lay down a fresh truss of straw, and I will sleep with my horse,”
she said imperiously.



CHAPTER XIII

OF OUR ENTRANCE INTO A NEW SERVICE


AGAINST this order the Count of Nullepart laid an objection. He made
the lady the offer of his own apartment; and this she accepted with a
more gentle air than any she had previously used. While the landlord
went to have this chamber put in readiness, she turned to my companion,
saying with a slight hesitation that became her adorably,--

“Sir, you are my good friend.”

“Your servant, madam, if your highness will only have it so,” said the
Count of Nullepart, with his amused air and that soft lisping speech
which must have captivated the heart of any lady in the world.

“You call me out of my condition, sir,” said she. “You speak me above
my degree.”

“Marry, do I?” said the Count of Nullepart, with a laugh and a shrug
of the shoulders; “then will your highness furnish your true name and
title, for I do but speak you as you seem, which I am sure cannot be
more than you are.”

“Yes, sir, you speak me out of my title, but I can see it is the fault
of a courteous mind. But I cannot publish my degree to the world, sir,
neither can I publish my name, so perhaps it were better that you
addressed me as madam.”

“Well, madam,” said the Count of Nullepart, “I believe you to be in
need of true servants, for you travel alone and in dangerous places.”

“A woman, sir, is ever in need of true servants,” said this adorable
creature, that was hardly more than a child, looking upon the Count of
Nullepart with large and unfearing eyes.

“You have either mixed in the world, madam,” said he, “or you were born
with knowledge, or this may be better sooth than you are aware; for, as
you say, every woman is in need of true servants. I make you the formal
proffer, madam, of my sword, my goodwill, and my devotion.”

Without more ado the Count of Nullepart rose from the table, and
drawing his fine Spanish blade, fell on one knee before her. With the
simple dignity of a princess, she held out her hand, and with charming
humility the Count of Nullepart bore it to his lips.

“This is a good providence,” said she, with a bright colour in her
cheek, “for never was a woman in such sore need of good servants.”

Immediately these words were spoken I also rose, and inspired by the
count’s example, drew my sword, and offered my service also. She
accepted them with beautiful grace and composure.

“I fear, my friends,” said she, “you will have arduous labours. I am
beset with every difficulty, and I have a great work to perform.”

“Your servants will be the happier, madam,” said I. “They will not be
wanting in the hour of need.”

Suddenly she rose with truly regal proudness, and looked at the Count
of Nullepart and myself with earnest, questioning glances.

“Have you led armies, sir?” she asked of my companion.

“Ah, no, madam,” said he with an arch smile; “except in my own soul.”

“And you, sir, have you led armies?” she asked of me.

“No, madam,” I said, “I have yet to do so; but there are those of my
name who have fallen in battle, and when occasion calls, may I stand
true to my inheritance!”

“And you know not the field,” said she, “nor yet of the practice of
war?”

“No, madam, but I have renounced my native mountains that I may gain
that knowledge.”

“It is well, sir, for in your new service you will see shrewd blows
given.”

“And shall hope to give them, madam.”

“Yes, sir,” said she, with the gravity of a minister of state, “you
have a martial look; I doubt not the valiancy of your disposition.”

The innkeeper came now to inform her that the sleeping-chamber had been
set ready for her use.

“Before I give you good-night, my friends,” she said in her proud,
clear speech, “I would have you, sir, play me another of your melodies
upon the sweet instrument of which I cannot remember the name.”

To this command the Count of Nullepart assented with an excellent
grace, although on the previous occasion she had hardly deigned to
listen to his playing. This time, however, she followed the music with
flushed cheeks and parted lips, which showed she was yet something of
a child at heart, although a woman in affairs.

“I thank you, friend,” she said gravely; “you are indeed a sweet
musicianer. It will be a part of your service to play to me every
evening before I retire.”

I know not whether it was the service we had proferred to her, or the
wistful notes of the music that had melted her, but now she seemed to
be transformed from the great lady of affairs to the romantical maid.

“You will attend me, my friends, through bloodshed and darkness,” she
said; “and whenever my voice is raised, and wherever it may be heard,
you will obey its call?”

“We have sworn it, madam,” said the Count of Nullepart.

“I see dark days; I fear an old house is poor and enfeebled, and is
tottering to its ruin. But it is a good providence that sends such
friends to its succour, and they shall be remembered in my prayers. At
six of the morning we get upon our road. I now give you good-night, my
friends; but in the meanwhile I would have you sleep warily, for at any
hour I may inquire if you are of a good vigilance.”

I cannot say with what enchantment we watched this fair and imperious
thing ascend the stairs of the inn to her chamber.

“That is a sweet quean,” said the Count of Nullepart, calling for a new
bottle of wine.

“And a brave, forsooth,” said I. “What, I wonder, can be her degree?”

“To-morrow,” said the Count of Nullepart, “will unmask this fair
unknown.”

“How singular it is,” said I, “that she should ride unattended over the
country and in these unseasonable hours.”

“To-morrow we shall understand it all,” said the Count of Nullepart.
“Then shall we learn to what high destiny we are called.”

“I am deceived,” said I, “if there is not to be a great work toward. By
my faith, how beautiful she is!”

“Aye,” said the count, with one of his melancholy glances, “she is
indeed the Proud Princess. Therefore I expect to-morrow will not dawn
for us. We shall fall asleep over our wine, you and I, my dear Don
Miguel, and awake to find that there is an end to our dreams. We shall
find the bird flown.”

“She will have to fly out at the window, then, Sir Count.”

“Yes; doubtless she will prefer to do that. For there never was a bird
so beautiful, so graceful, so touched with the soft hues of romance
that the soul of a man was able to keep it before it to gaze upon. This
is some princess out of an Arabian story. We shall find, dear friend,
that there is no flesh and blood in her. She came to us out of the
air, and to-morrow at dawn we shall find her resolved again into that
element.”

“In the meantime we will be of good courage, Sir Count, and dream upon
her--”

“In all her lily-white daintiness, which was never so dustily and
coarsely clad.”

The Count of Nullepart took forth his music yet again, and played a
final melody; one which in grave sweetness and fantasy and delicacy
of passion was more than equal to all the others. We then drained our
cups and fell into slumber presently, with our heads on the table at
which we sat.

I suppose we must both have been dreaming of that vision that had made
poetry of our ideas, and I suppose that proud and beautiful face, which
was yet so bright with youth, and so grave with its coquetry, may even
have revealed itself through the mists of the brain, for at some hour
towards two of the clock of the summer’s darkness we sprang to our feet
with that imperious voice in our ears.

“To me, my friends, to me!” was the cry we heard.

Together we sprang from the settle, and ran to the stairs.

“To me, my friends, to me!” we heard the cry again. It was clear and
spreading, yet withal it was the voice of a child.

Running pell-mell up the dark stairs, for as yet the dawn had made no
sign, we found standing at their head, as staunch as a spear, the small
princess we were pledged to serve. Above her head she held a taper.

“I thank you, friends, I find you vigilant,” she said in a voice she
might have used upon two honest hounds that had pleased her well with
their fidelity. She gave us the tips of her slender fingers to caress,
and then returned to her chamber with a calm disdain that filled us
with a kind of passion.

During the remainder of the night there was no more sleep for her two
faithful servants, who went back to their table and passed the hours
till dawn casting the dice and descanting upon her beauty.

At the first beams of day we went forth into the streets of the
sleeping city, walking arm-in-arm and discussing the adventures that
were likely to befall us. The Count of Nullepart was a man of some
thirty years of age, and so deeply versed in the ways of the world that
he viewed this odd matter in the light of a diversion rather than as a
truly momentous affair.

“I do not love you the less, Don Miguel,” he said, “because you are
entranced by this fair unknown. But you must not take it amiss if I
follow your ravishment at a respectful distance. She is indeed a sweet
thing, and of an infinite caprice, and we must indeed be grateful for
her boldness, wherever it may lead. It may enable us to forget the
world for a season; and above all, my dear Don Miguel, is not that the
aim of a ripe philosophy?”

It surprised me that my comrade should permit himself such a whimsical
indifference upon this subject; yet, after all, I was moved to the
reflection that it was not so surprising neither, as he appeared to be
of her kin.

The way led us directly to the market square, whereupon the Count of
Nullepart insisted upon proceeding to the identical spot in which we
had first become acquainted.

“That was an unequal combat, my dear Don Miguel, you waged with the
horse-dealer,” he said, laughing. “I never derived a greater pleasure
from anything than the manner in which your own delicate and gentle
wits endeavoured to surmount the nimble ones of that hard-featured
rogue.”

“I believe,” said I, “that yesterday was the turning-point of my life.
In the forenoon I suffered a grievous hap; in the afternoon I gained a
dear friend; and in the evening I set my eyes upon the mistress who is
to be the pole-star of my fortune.”

Having uttered this prophecy, I recited to my companion the noble words
of Don Ygnacio touching this matter. He smiled his approval of them,
and assured me that my father must have been a great gentleman. We
then retraced our steps to the inn, lest we should keep our wonderful
lady waiting. Yet as we made towards it, the Count of Nullepart in his
whimsical fashion vowed we should find her flown.



CHAPTER XIV

OF THE JOURNEYING BACK TO THE HOUSE OF MY REJECTION


HOWEVER, the Count of Nullepart was wrong in this particular. For on
returning to the Three Feathers, we found her supping porridge with
the greatest zest, with two servants to wait upon her. We were in time
to hear her rate the landlord soundly because her couch had been hard;
also to hear her put innumerable questions to that honest fellow as to
whether her horse was shoed? what kind of smith it was that shoed it?
was the shoe likely to give comfort to the horse? and was it calculated
to cause no injury?

“Not that the horse is mine, fellow, you understand that?” said the
little lady, who looked as fresh as peach bloom, and who appeared to
keep her small head full of practical affairs.

“Oh yes, your ladyship, I quite understand that,” said the innkeeper,
with an air of the profoundest intelligence.

“I suspect you stole it, madam, from the Mother Superior,” said the
Count of Nullepart, taking up the conversation with a silken air.

“Why should you suspect that, sir?” said she, flashing upon the count
the instant glance of a hawk.

“I have two eyes, madam,” said he, smiling, “something of mind, and
my five wits--although I have no respect for them, and deplore their
use--are yet pointed as finely as five daggers. I am sure you stole
your horse from the Mother Superior.”

“How so, sirrah? And why so? And what do you mean?” said the lady,
flinging her questions at him scornfully, and tapping her foot on the
ground with petulance.

“I have been thinking upon you during the night,” said the Count of
Nullepart, “and have allowed myself to conclude that you are run away
from your convent on the horse of the Mother Superior, which fetches
home the eggs and butter from market.”

“Well, sir, and if I am run away,” said the lady haughtily, “I would
not have you mention it in this public place. I have many reasons for
running away, and the first of them is my father’s peril.”

“May I ask you, madam,” said the Count of Nullepart, with a smile
lurking at the corners of his mouth, “will it alleviate your father’s
peril, which I do not doubt is great, that you run away from your
convent on the horse of the Mother Superior?”

“Why, sir, indeed it will,” said she. “All his days, my father, his
lordship’s grace, hath been but as a child in statecraft; and being, as
he conceives, insufficiently able to mismanage his own policy, he must
needs in matters of great pith and delicacy call in the aid of an old
fat man to embroil them further.”

“And so, madam,” said the Count of Nullepart gravely, “you must needs
run away on the Mother Superior’s horse--the only horse, by the way, I
believe she possesses, which itself is slightly lame of the spavin--in
order that you may bear your infinite wisdom and your ripe experience
to the councils of your august male parent, his lordship’s grace, the
Duke of Where-is-it?”

“For what reason, sir, do you adjudge my father to be of that degree?”

“I adjudge it, madam, from the demeanour of his daughter. I called you
highness at a venture, and you corrected me. But unless these five wits
of mine, whose sharpness is forever disgracing me, have fallen into
disuse, there is not less than ducal blood in your veins, although
‘highness’ be not the nature of your title.”

“Your wits are shrewd, sir,” said the lady, “and your mind is subtle.
You have unmasked me, sir, you have torn away my cloak; and although I
do not thank you for it, after all, I don’t grieve much. My father is
the Duke of Montesina, dwelling at five leagues’ distance, and he is in
unhappy case.”

You may conceive, reader, with what concern I heard these words.
Fortune had indeed reserved for me a precious trick. I was to journey
back to the house of my rejection in the suite of one upon whose
service I had staked every hope. Overwhelmed by as great a conflict of
feeling as I had ever known, I could not forbear from disclosing my ill
adventure of the previous day. I am by no means clear that such an act
was becoming in a gentleman thus to unbosom himself to this daughter of
a high grandee, who on her account had used him without civility. But
as I laid bare my misfortunes to this imperious lady I seemed to fail
altogether in mastery of myself, being unable to command my unlucky
tongue.

However, the consequences of such an indiscretion were in nowise
unhappy. This noble lady listened to my words; and when I had spoken
to her of my dismissal, merely because I had hoped to serve her, such
a flame darkened her cheek, her eyes flashed so finely, her lips grew
so tremulous with anger, and she gave me her hand with a gesture so
pitiful and yet so superb that I found myself to be trembling with joy.

“Oh, that old man!” she cried. “Oh, that old man, he will be my death!
But I see the hand of that fat man in this. If that fat man walk
not warily, I will have him thrown into a dungeon with his bulk and
everything else.”

Such a resolute anger as possessed her at this recital of my tale I
never saw. I could not help recalling that of her father at the moment
he supplied the present occasion for it. And it so chanced that the
innkeeper, who was still standing by and paying his service to her,
was himself a fat man with a goodly paunch. Therefore she caused him
to supply the room of the offender, whoever he might be, and he was
doubtless Don Luiz, the Duke’s gentleman-usher; for in a true manner of
femininity, which filled the Count of Nullepart with joy, she addressed
the whole of her dislike to grossness to this unfortunate fellow.

“I hate a fat man,” she said, looking at the stout landlord ruthlessly.
“I am always filled with disgust by such enormous bulks. If I ever come
to the state of power, I will have every fat man broke upon the wheel;
and when I take over the governance of my father’s province, as I mean
to do this very afternoon, I will at once enact an ordinance whereby
every fat man within my dominion shall receive an hundred blows with a
stick.”

The poor innkeeper, who for one of his tribe was an honest fellow,
began to tremble horribly and to sweat like a horse.

“Annually,” she said, with such a truculent look that I marvelled how
so fair a countenance could compass it, “an hundred blows.”

“Poor fellows!” said the Count of Nullepart. “Poor fat men, won’t they
cry out!”

“There will never be such crying heard in Spain for many a year. I will
have it ordained that the sticks be edged with sharp pieces of wire.
Get you from my sight, you foolish, fat, lubberly fellow, else you
shall be the first to receive your merit.”

The innkeeper needed no second admonition to retire, for upon this
speaking her ladyship ordered the Count of Nullepart to procure her
riding-whip from the corner of the room. When the Count of Nullepart
brought forth this implement with an extremely grave face, it looked
so formidable as to justify the landlord in his flight. Yet how one
fashioned so delicately would have been able to wield such an enormous
weapon was beyond the comprehension of both the Count of Nullepart and
myself.

The instancy of the lady’s anger being past, she turned to the Count of
Nullepart, who still preserved the utmost gravity in his mien, and said
in a proud voice, which yet had nothing of its recent displeasure, “I
am led to think, sir, you have a wise and a subtle mind. I will see to
it that you are admitted into my counsels. What, sir, is your name and
your degree?”

The Count of Nullepart informed her of his titles in his melodious
accent.

“I am not displeased, sir,” said she, “that you are a man of birth. But
I had already adjudged it by your address. Now, my friends, as soon as
you have broken your fasts we will to horse. Five hot and dusty leagues
lie before us up the side of a steep mountain. We must not tarry, else
we shall not find the sun to be our friend.”

We did not venture to court her disapproval, which certainly, as we had
just had the proof, could be of the most imperious nature, by lingering
over our matutinal wine and meat. For myself, I ate my breakfast in a
state of high excitement. I could do nothing but think of the subtle
trick that fortune had set upon me. I was overjoyed to feel that by the
stroke of Providence I was to be permitted to prove my quality. All my
dreams, my ambitions, the wide vista opened to the view by my father’s
wisdom and prophetic foresight, were suddenly offered an ample field in
which to bear a golden fruit.

It was between six and seven o’clock of the summer’s morning when the
horse of our youthful mistress was led out of its stall. It proved to
be a shambling old white palfrey, as halt as a cow, and nearly as blind
as a stone. Before the lady would suffer herself to be mounted she must
needs examine its new shoe, which, happily for the smith, whoever he
might be, had been laid on craftily enough to obtain the sanction of
her goodwill and pleasure.

By the time this ancient quadruped had been led forth into the inn
yard, and had fully justified the title of “a notorious milk and butter
carrier,” as applied to it by the Count of Nullepart, I had determined,
come what might, to be the foremost in helping our mistress into the
saddle. I had contrived it that I should stoop to her and put out my
hand with great alacrity, yea, I had even got so far as to clasp her
boot in my palm, when, of a sudden motion, the Count of Nullepart took
her round the middle without more ado, and deposited her, whip and all,
upon the back of her palfrey with as little concern as if she had been
a bundle of feathers.

I think we were both proud men as we rode forth of the inn yard in such
society. Yet, if I must speak the truth, I was on ill terms with myself
for having lacked the count’s boldness. Still, the manner in which he
had taken her out of my grasp came very near to violence. And so far
was she from checking him for his forwardness that she appeared, with
some perversity as I conceived, to hold it nothing to his detriment.
For all through the city she requited what I was forced to consider a
rude importunity with the favour of her entire conversation.

“Do I take it, madam,” said the Count of Nullepart, “that your father,
his lordship’s grace, has the whole of this fair city for his dominion?”

“No, sir,” said the lady, with petulance; “it is under the sway of the
Archbishop of Toledo, a crafty and meddlesome priest. If my father had
had a better thrift, so that his coffers had a richer lining, and the
sharpest of his enemies were not like to be at his gate, I would urge
him to wrest this fair town from this hateful churchman and put the old
rascal to the sword.”

As she spoke these words in her fine clear speech, she swept a glance
of so much splendour over the crowding gabled roofs, the trees and
bazaars, and the tall spires of the churches, as plainly showed that
that sweetly delectable form harboured a spirit that was bold and
warlike. Nor was her utterance a light one. She did not speak for
several minutes, for her words had caused her to fall into a muse.

“One of these days,” she said at last, “I shall bring an army into
this city; one of these days this fair town shall be mine. You see, my
friend, I stand next to my father; I am heiress of all his demesne. And
I do tell you, my friend, that when the Countess Sylvia comes to her
inheritance, and good soldiers and good treasure are at her beck, she
will ride on a milk-white courser at the head of more than a thousand
beautiful fighting soldiers, each clad in a corslet of steel as bright
as a mirror, with a long white plume in his cap, and the motto of
her house painted in scarlet upon a cloth of white camlet upon his
breast. And she shall sack this fair city, and see to it that all Jews,
heretics, and Moriscoes are put to the sword. And this snuffling old
priest, this archbishop who at present holds the city in her despite,
she will nail by the ears to that gate yonder--do you not see it, my
friend, peeping out of the cork trees beside yonder fountain which hath
the water playing?”

“Upon my soul,” said the Count of Nullepart, holding in his horse to
give a better scope to his gravity, “I never heard a speech so full of
statesmanship. Do I speak the future Queen of Castile, I wonder? Do I
speak the future Queen of all Spain?”

“My thoughts are not concerned with so large a title, sir; I do but
desire that my father defend his right and that I defend mine.”

“Yet you would quell the archbishop, most noble countess,” said the
Count of Nullepart, laughing softly.

“That is not because I am covetous, sir, but because I have my ideas.
It is a presumption for a priest to hold a city. Let him keep to the
burning of heretics, and draw a revenue from the Holy Synod, not hold a
demesne in fee to the prejudice of his betters.”

“Well, madam,” said the Count of Nullepart, beginning to shake in his
saddle, “more advanced views I never heard put forward by a lady of
eighteen. If the ladies of future ages are to be of such stern clay as
yours, I foresee that there will be neither religions, dynasties, nor
empires upon the face of the globe. I foresee the day to be at hand
when everything of my unfortunate sex will be put to the sword, and
trunk hose will cease to be the pledge of a valiant simplicity.”

The Count of Nullepart, who for all his melancholy and sad look, was
much addicted to laughter, kept chuckling in a stealthy manner at
these speeches of our fair companion. And she, dear soul, was far from
observing him, being engrossed too deeply in her own designs; besides,
such an air as she wore would have rendered it impossible for her
to believe that any person could have been excited to mirth by her
conversation.

You will suppose that I felt myself out of countenance a little by not
receiving a share of the lady’s notice; but however much I might chafe
at my inability to inspire it, fortune presently played into my hands.
The Count of Nullepart, already installed as the favourite, either
failed to appreciate or did not choose to consider that the eminence
to which he had ascended carried its responsibilities. For, as we
wound along the steep paths which led to the castle, we passed, under
the shadow of a rock, a strapping rustic peasant girl with a laughing
face, bright eyes and cheeks, and a nosegay at her bosom. As we came
upon this handsome wench, the Count of Nullepart gazed at her long and
particularly, and even permitted himself to express an open approval
of her beauty. From that moment our fair companion paid him no more
regard. Immediately she turned to me, riding upon her left hand, and
proceeded to converse in a most grave and dignified manner.

All the rest of the way I had that arch and imperious voice to myself.
Several times its owner pointed with her riding-whip to the fair
prospect that was unfolded from this steep hill. I can never forget
this picture of the corn-fields, the oak trees, the cattle browsing
upon the mountain slopes, which were clad in the fierce white sun.
Little rivers ran down shining and sparkling to the Tagus, that fine
broad ribbon belted with diamonds which ran to hide itself in the fair
city below.

“One day all this will be under my sway as far as the eyes can scan,”
said the Countess Sylvia, “and that goodly city that lies below shall
be the capital of my dominion.”

When we rode up to the gate of the castle I was put in mind of my
previous misfortune. My heart began to beat as the scene returned upon
me. I saw myself rejected for the second time, or perchance cast into
a dungeon. Yet it was only for a moment that I permitted myself to
embrace these fears. For I reflected that this weakness was no part
of valour, and that at my side was one who, young as she was, was a
beautiful and fearless protectress. In the eyes of her whom I was
pledged to serve was that which put vacillation to the blush.

At the first blow I gave to the gate it swung back as before; yet upon
our admission, in spite of the presence of the Lady Sylvia, the same
formalities had to be enacted as on the previous occasion. She was
unknown to the soldiers at the gate, and we had to await, upon her part
with the greatest impatiency, the arrival of the captain of the guard.

He received her ladyship with a profound obeisance which did but add
fuel to her displeasure. She turned upon him in the most instant
manner, and cried, pointing to those who had declined to allow her to
proceed, “Put those soldiers in durance. Let them receive a bastinado
apiece.”

“But may it please your ladyship,” said the captain of the guard, “they
have only been in the service of his grace a twelvemonth; and never
having had the honour of seeing your ladyship, they knew you not.”

“If you venture to pass words with me, sirrah,” said the Countess
Sylvia, “you shall go to a dungeon yourself. By my life, it is well I
am come home! Even you dogs of soldiers have forgot your duty; but, by
my good soul, I will have it rectified.”

With the arrogance of a queen she disdained the service of the Count
of Nullepart, but allowed me to lift her from the saddle. Gathering up
her coarse grey garments, she bade the cowed and abashed captain of the
guard, a swollen and overbearing fellow with a pair of mustachios that
were capable of striking terror into the boldest heart, and who might
have concealed his mistress altogether in the capacious folds of his
gaberdine, conduct her to her father.

Asking leave of none and standing upon no formality, we all three
passed directly to that apartment of which I had had such a bitter
experience. I must confess, to my shame, that, as again I entered
it and beheld all those objects that were imprinted on my mind so
indelibly, I was sensible of a grave uneasiness.

As on the previous day, the duke was seated on his high chair, with
the dwarf at his back. At the appearance of his daughter he rose with
a sharp exclamation of surprise. He came forward to greet her, and she
met him gently with all her anger cooled, and received his embrace with
every mark of pleasure.

“But this is most singular,” said the duke, when he had bestowed these
marks of his affection. “What do you here, my delightful one? How have
you travelled? In what manner have you been accompanied?”

“My lord,” she answered, “I am here of your kingdom’s business. I have
travelled upon an old horse I took of the Mother Superior; and I have
been accompanied part of the journey by my five wits, and the other
part of it by these two honest gentlemen, whom I now present to your
lordship’s grace.”

“Oh and soh!” said the duke, after accepting our obeisances with a
disapproval he could ill conceal. “This is a very ill and froward
matter.”

It alarmed me to see his face grow red and to hear the harsh manner in
which he spoke these words. He put his daughter in no fear, however.

“Yes, your lordship,” she said calmly. “Being arrived at the age of
eighteen years, and knowing well that a wise and mature mind was needed
to direct your affairs, which the old fat man, your lordship’s chief
councillor, hath embroiled for so long a season, I deemed it time,
being arrived at eighteen years I say, to repair to the service of your
lordship.”

I think a great man can seldom have been gravelled so badly as was the
duke at these words. He could but open his mouth and gasp.

“But--but--but--” he cried in a splutter, “you leave your convent
without permission, you ride alone into dangerous places, you take up
with strangers along the road, and you dare--you dare, madam, to bring
them here to me! By my hand, madam, this is intolerable. You shall go
back to your convent immediately, and you shall be whipped.”

There never was such a staunch glance, I think, as that with which the
Countess Sylvia met the petulant anger of her parent.

“This is feeble talk, my lord,” she said boldly. “I have not adventured
a five days’ journey upon an old horse of most ridiculous paces to hear
such speaking as this. Many rumours have reached me in my convent of
what was toward in the world. I have even heard of the design of the
infamous King John to turn you forth of this castle, which you and
yours, my lord, have held by right of main for four hundred years.
Answer me, my lord, is not this so? is not this King John of Castile
about to take your manor?”

“Do not speak to me, madam,” said the duke. “You shall go back to your
convent at once. And as for these precious villains that you have
picked out of some infamous venta, they shall spend the rest of their
lives in a prison.”

The angry duke, having directed a glance of the most desperate contempt
at the Count of Nullepart and myself, sent the dwarf for Don Luiz, even
as he had done on the previous occasion.

“Ods, my life, madam,” he said, “I think you must be mad!”

When that slow-moving, austere, and portentous Don Luiz, who was yet
so girt about with arrogance and dignity, appeared in the wake of the
natural, it was plain enough that he was no other than that fat man
the recollection of whom had moved the little countess to such a deep
disgust. As he entered with a grunt and a wheeze, she clenched her
hands and looked upon him with the most disdainful effrontery, although
she spoke not a word.

“Here is a matter, Luiz; here is a matter,” cried the duke, breaking
out into a wail. “Mark yon little venom there; do you mark her? Run
away, Luiz; run away from her convent. Do you have her taken back
immediately, and she is to be flogged soundly.”

“Your grace shall be obeyed,” said Don Luiz heavily.

“And further, Luiz,” said the old grandee, who apparently was
stimulated by the presence of his trusty gentleman-usher, “these two
villainous rapscallions whom she hath picked out of some hedge tavern
to accompany her, and who, as you see, have had effrontery to beard us
in our own apartment, do you see to it, Luiz, that they are kept in
a solitary dungeon for the remainder of their lives. Or I put it to
you, Luiz--I shall cherish your advice upon this matter--would it be
properer to have them hanged at once for such a piece of mischief?”

I know not what were the feelings of the Count of Nullepart, but I have
to confess, good reader, that for myself I have seldom been thrown into
a greater concern. From the light in which the duke chose to view this
affair, our action in venturing to beard him in his own apartment at
the instance of a mischievous truant, on so bare a pretext, did indeed
savour of folly and presumption. And Don Luiz was fain to take the same
view of our conduct as his master, for, after collecting his wits with
wonderful solemnity, he answered, “I consider, my lord, you will do
well to hang them.”



CHAPTER XV

OF SOME FROWARD PASSAGES BEFORE THE DUKE


“DON LUIZ,” said our young mistress, speaking with a sternness that
was remarkably dignified, “you will do well to hold your peace. You
are now dismissed from that high position which you have occupied so
unworthily for I know not how many years. Your emoluments are reduced
by one half, and even then, Don Luiz, your fees will be above your
services. From this moment I myself, Don Luiz, am to occupy the room
of first councillor to his lordship’s grace; for I have to inform you
that matters of the greatest instancy are like to be toward, and it
will need a bold heart, a firm will, and a ripe judgment to direct his
affairs.”

If the duke had been taken aback by the entrance of his daughter, his
demeanour could not compare with that of his councillor when assailed
by these calm words that were uttered so impressively.

“Ods nig and nog!” cried the duke, “these are words, madam, these are
words. Am I lived to seventy years and three to be browbeat in mine own
presence by a rib out of mine own flesh! By my troth, I will have you
scourged, madam; I will have you scourged. Take her away, Luiz, or I
shall fall into such a passion that I shall say something grievous.”

“My lord,” said the Countess Sylvia, “am I a cook-maid that I should be
mentioned in this manner? Have I journeyed five days on an old horse,
under the heat of the sun, to serve the grace of your lordship that I
should be spoken to rudely by your lordship’s grace?”

“Bah and pooh!” said the duke. “Get you away, you wicked hulks. Go, do
you hear me, naughty one! Out of my sight, I say! As for these foul
villains by whom thou art accompanied, such a tight string shall be
drawn about their throats as shall cause them to fling up their heels
in the air.”

The Countess Sylvia, however, was undaunted by the choleric rage of his
lordship’s grace. For she had a goodly anger of her own to set before
him, which was accompanied by the stamping of her foot and exceeding
large turbulent tears.

“Out of my presence, spitfire!” said the duke.

“My lord,” said the little countess, “I leave the presence of your
lordship at no command save mine own.”

“Dost thou defy me, rude one?” said the duke. “Ods nick and nack! I
will go to a main extremity. Luiz, do you remove her; cast her out,
Luiz. Ods my good soul! must I be bearded in mine own presence by a rib
out of mine own flesh.”

This starched and dignified grandee had long thrown his ceremonious
mien to the wind. He walked up and down his apartment, pishing and
tushing, snapping his fingers and almost weeping with anger.

“Dost thou hear me, Luiz? Put her out, I say, put her out! Or
wouldst thou have me do it, Luiz, with the reverend hand of mine own
paternity?”

Don Luiz approached the little countess warily enough, as though he
were not so fond of his task. The proud madam drew herself up into an
aspect of the most splendid fierce grandeur.

“Do not touch me, fat man,” she said. “Do not lay so much as a
finger upon my gown, or, as I am a person, you shall swing, bulk and
everything, from the topmost turret of this castle. From this day I am
master here and mistress too.”

The abashed fat man stopped and hesitated and looked at the duke
despairingly.

“Luiz, Luiz,” said his master, “why do you not take her by the
shoulders and put her out of the room? Or would you have me do it,
Luiz, by the might of mine own paternity?”

It was clear, although Don Luiz made no such confession, that he would
have preferred that his august master should have put the countess out
of the room by the might of his own paternity. But the Lady Sylvia’s
baffled parent showed no disposition to come near her; and, fume as
he would, there appeared to be nothing in his nature to compel the
enforcement of his authority. Finding himself in the imminent danger
of defeat, for Don Luiz still remained tardy and unwilling, he had
recourse, as was only to be expected of a weak and inferior spirit, to
those offenders who were not so well placed to outface his wrath.

“Luiz,” he said, “I would have you summon the guard, and arrest these
two cut-throats that madam hath picked out of a hedge tavern; and do
you see to it that they hang in a quarter of an hour.”

The gentleman-usher being much better able to execute this order than
the former one, made haste to do so.

“My friends,” said our mistress, who in her anger, her defiance, and
her turbulence had never looked so adorable, “come to the high ground
behind the table near the window. Draw your swords and play them well
if you are pressed. But, as I am a person, they shall not dare to touch
you. For mark it, and, your lordship’s grace, do you mark it too, if
one of these knaves so much as lays a finger against the doublet of my
friends, I will slay him with mine own poniard.”

To make good her speech she turned to the dwarf and said in a voice of
the highest courage, “Give me your dagger, sirrah.”

Instead of obeying, the dwarf, with a vacuous grin, looked towards the
duke for a direction. Before he could withdraw his gaze the countess
had struck him on the cheek with the butt of the riding-whip she still
bore in her hand.

“Give me your dagger, sirrah,” she repeated in a voice that was full of
passion.

The dwarf, a wretched, misshapen hunchback, obeyed her with a scowl and
a whimper. At the same moment there arose the measured clank of arms.
The Count of Nullepart and myself, acting upon the natural instinct
that directed our minds rather than upon the wisdom of our mistress
which had yet bade us do so, drew our swords and climbed to the daïs.

Almost as we reached this eminence, Don Luiz came into the room with
some half a dozen soldiers, whose swords were also drawn and who wore
corslets of steel. At this sight a kind of haze fell across my eyes.
Yet such an exaltation came upon my blood as never before had quickened
it; and I gripped my weapon as though it had been the waist of a
mistress, and awaited the onfall with joy.

“Behind the table, close to the wall,” said the Count of Nullepart in
a soft whispering voice which yet was perfectly calm. “Farther by the
left a little, that we may play better. Straight at their faces. We
shall get nothing out of these plaguy breastplates.”

The Count of Nullepart also, if I am not mistaken, was fallen into my
condition. I could hear the ring of joy in his voice. It would seem
that here was his moment also. He too seemed to hold his blade like a
lover.

As a prologue to the fray, no sooner had the soldiers entered the room
and had fallen to attend the duke’s instructions than the Countess
Sylvia walked on to the daïs, and in the next moment had come to stand
on the table itself, with her whip in one hand, her dagger in the
other, and a good sword on either side of her.

From this singular eminence she gazed with an insolent contumely upon
the forces that were being marshalled against us.

“Soldiers of the guard,” she said, as though she were speaking to an
army, “your bare swords are your peril. His lordship’s grace is no
longer your commander. He is an old man and a querulous; a dotard so
shrunk in his wits that I hereby depose him. Myself as the mistress to
his dominion do appoint myself to the regency. From this moment do I
declare myself no less your master than your mistress. Here do I take
my stance; here do I enforce my authority; and these virtuous gentlemen
that keep at my side are your honourable captains. Sheathe your swords
therefore, doff your bonnets, and like honest men do homage to your
liege-lady.”

Now, I was never able to learn whether this wonderful speech was
given--and you must believe me, reader, when I assure you it was no
less wonderful in its mode than in its form--for the behoof of his
grace’s soldiers or for that of his grace himself. At least it was not
without an effect upon both. The guard looked at the duke in just such
a fashion as Don Luiz and the dwarf had done; and he, like the dotard
that at heart he was, began to whine and threaten and hurl abuse upon
this noble intrepidity, and yet himself to stand irresolute.

“Ods wounds! I do not want to slay the little tiger-cat,” he whined.
“Take the dagger from her. You, sirrah, take the dagger from her, but I
pray you do not hurt her.”

The bearded warrior upon whom the duke called to execute this command
seemed in nowise eager to enact a deed so delicate.

“Stand clear, you paltry ruffian!” said the little countess. “If you so
much as touch my sleeve I will stab you.”

In good sooth a proper discretion was necessary. The eminence upon
which her ladyship stood and her perfect valiancy rendered it work for
a bold man to come near her. Again, there was her dagger to consider,
also a keen pair of blades flanking her sacred person one on each side.

It is easy to believe that such a situation was not without its humour.
But for the three chief actors in this play, who stood shoulder to
shoulder upon the daïs, it was grave indeed.

“Sirrah, sirrah!” cried the duke. “You with your beard under your chin,
down with her, I say! Take away her dagger; or must I stand in the
presence of insubordination?”

The soldier approached warily under the goad of the duke’s wrath, and
came up to our platform, with his mouth open wide like a stuck bear.

“Is there none that will heed me, Luiz?” cried the duke. “Is it come
to this: must I conduct mine own business by mine own valiancy? Must
I, sore smitten with the infirmity of my seventy years and three, take
away this vixenish dagger with this ancient hand?”

“You are stricken in years, my lord,” said his daughter; “you are
speaking foolishly. Go you to bed, like a wise old man; the leech
shall bleed you; and that fat fellow who is swollen like a goose at
Michaelmas, shall read you a psalm.”

“Ods mud!” cried her parent, spluttering himself into a state of
incoherency, “will nobody pull her down? I ask you, will nobody pull
her down? Will none obey me? Must I do it personally? Ods unicorns!
must I correct her with mine own indignation?”

Instead of advancing, however, to do his own business, the duke was
content to whine and complain, like an old dog that is wishful to bite,
yet is unable. And it was most curious to watch this foiled grandee
look first at Don Luiz, his right hand, and then at the soldiers of his
guard. But these showed no disposition to help him in his pass. None
had the desire to offer violence to their youthful mistress, who had so
much more of valour than their aged master.

“Luiz,” cried the duke, “do you fetch that foreign man, that Sirrah
Richard Red Dragon. He is the man to serve us. Ods myself! he will have
no fear of three halfpence worth of bib and tucker, with a bit of steel
to give it effrontery. Ods my good heart! he will not fear a minx and a
wanton that is so rude as any jackanapes. Do you tell him to bring his
stick along with him, Luiz; I will have her flogged in public for this.
Ods my good soul! Luiz, I never was in such a passion before.”

Don Luiz went forth on his new errand with great alacrity.

“You are as weak as a chewed straw, my lord,” said little insolent
madam. “Get you to your bed, like a good old man, and I will send you a
priest with a fresh, young voice, and he shall sing you an anthem. You
have no more valiancy than an old milch cow, my lord. You are as feeble
as a gnat under a willow in a wet November. It is well I am come home.
I believe your lordship’s grace would deliver up this house to the
Castilian the first time he set his hand upon your lattice.”

It is hard to know what reply the duke would have offered to such an
onslaught upon his old age, made by one of his own kith. But before
he could frame it, in whatever it might consist, that huge man the
Englishman entered the room with his sword drawn and snuffing like a
tiger.

“If I am upon an errand of good steel,” he said, coming in with a
swagger that filled the whole apartment, “I hope there is a proper
valiance in mine adversaries, for I am in a humour to cut and thrust,
to hack and mutilate.”

“Sirrah Richard Red Dragon,” said the duke, with most perfect dignity,
“I would have you pull down that proud hulks off the table there, and
I would have you chastise her with severity; and further I would have
you seize those two malefactors by whom she is encompassed, and I would
have you hang them within a quarter of an hour.”

Sir Richard Pendragon made one or two ferocious passes with his sword
before laying this order into execution. He then cast his eyes, which
were rolling in a truly terrible manner, towards where we held our
ground. But instead of making the horrible onslaught we had been led
to expect, he opened his mouth in astonishment. He then turned to gaze
at the duke, who stood the picture of calm pride and dignity, and then
back again to the no less calm and prideful countess.

“Ods my life! Sirrah Red Dragon,” said the duke, “I am minded to be
severe; I will use severity. Pull her down; do not spare her. But I
would have thee see to it, good coz, that she do not stab thee.”

In the meantime the English giant was still looking from the old duke
to the youthful countess, from the youthful countess to the old duke.
At last he threw his sword on the ground, pressed his great hands to
his ribs, and broke into such a report of laughter that it rolled round
the tall ceiling like the voice of the giant Fierabras.

“God’s tomb!” he roared. “If I do not spit blood I shall never need
surgery! If a most desperate fluxion does not surmount my poor brains I
am no man. If I do not perish of an overwrought mind I am a dog! By the
holy ape of Barbary, I shall laugh till I shed large tears!”

“Ods nig and nog!” cried the duke, resuming his querulous manners.
“Sirrah Red Dragon, will you reject me! Will you not do my bidding?
Must I, who am old and a parent, pull down a she-wolf and correct her
with the hand of mine own indignation? Ods nig and nog! is there no
manhood in Spain?”

While the duke continued to fume and splutter in this unworthy fashion,
the great English giant, and you must believe me, reader, when I tell
you he appeared to be as enormous as the heroes and ogres in the old
romances, continued to press on his ribs, and, even as he had himself
predicted, to shed veritable tears of laughter. But presently the mien
of the Countess Sylvia seemed to pacify this great coarse fellow. For,
as she stood gazing from her eminence with majestic looks, small as
she was and fragile, she was indeed a figure to touch the heart of a
gallant warrior.

“By my hand,” said the Englishman, abating his mirth into a true
admiration. “If this is not a piece of true mettle I am a rogue. Why,
thou sweet thing, thou art as red in the cheek as a carnation.”

“Sirrah ruffian!” said the little Countess Sylvia, exposing her
stiletto; “I would have you ’ware me. I will kill you if you come near.”

“There, hearken to her, hearken to her!” cried the duke. “Did I not say
she was a spitfire? Did I not say she was a proud and wicked hulks?”

“Come near thee,” said the English barbarian, “why, thou beautiful
thing, thou art a rose, a flower! Thou hast a light in thy eye like a
bud in June. I’ve a mind to buss thee for thy prettiness.”

“Is there no manhood abroad in the world?” cried the duke; “will no man
pull her down?”

Instead of paying heed to the duke, Sir Richard Pendragon made the
little Countess Sylvia a deep obeisance.

“This is the fairest rose in bud I have seen this moon,” he said,
laying his hand across his doublet. “By this hand you have my love,
pretty titmouse, and your whip and your dagger, they have it too.”

Upon this address a stern and sudden joy flamed in the eyes of the
Countess Sylvia.

The English giant, who even from the low ground towered above her,
table and all, was now come to stand before her. Without heeding the
duke, the soldiers, or Don Luiz, he kept his eyes upon her face, as
if enchained by its beauty, while all seemed so much amazed by the
audacity of his behaviour in standing without arms within striking
distance of her poniard, and yet to address her in such terms, that
none moved a step nor dared to interrupt their intercourse.

“Sirrah Red Dragon,” said the Countess Sylvia, “I know not who you are,
or whence you come, or what is your virtue, or what is your detriment;
but by my two eyes I judge you to be a true man and a valiant warrior.
And here I stand the mistress of this castle and the whole of its
furniture; and I am prepared to enforce my resolve by power of the
sword if the need arise, for I grieve to inform you that my father, his
lordship’s grace, hath fallen suddenly so senile in his years, that I
am called to be his nurse as well as his daughter; therefore, Sirrah
Red Dragon, whoever you may be, I would have you obey my behests. And
they are these. Put out those spawn in their steel corslets, put them
out, I say, into the antechamber; and then do you take that fat man
there, who is so gross as a pig and so round as a barrel, and do you
lock him up in an iron cage, and feed him upon husks, until you receive
our further advice upon the subject.”

“By the Lord Harry!” cried Sir Richard Pendragon, beaming with joy,
“this is as fine loud speaking as ever I heard. By this hand! this is
Charlemagne in a kirtle and mutch!”

Indeed, scarcely had the Countess Sylvia spoken to this tenor than this
gigantical foreigner, who was as great in his valour as he was in his
girth, fell suddenly upon the fellow that was next to him, who, to be
sure, was a somewhat puny man-at-arms, picked him up by an ear and a
limb, as though he were a truss of fodder, and carried him out of the
room bodily. Whereupon, the other warriors, who, like men of the ranks,
must have a leader before they can act, now having none--for the duke
was impotent before this new affront to his authority, and Don Luiz was
too fat in the wits and swollen with base living to appear better than
a cypher--knew not whether to offer resistance or to submit. And as it
was ever the easier to adopt the latter than the former course, and as
their choice in the matter was but small, when Sir Richard Pendragon
returned and took up his sword, with the flat of it he drove them
before him out of the chamber, like so many hogs along a lane.



CHAPTER XVI

OF THE GRIEVOUS MISHANDLING OF HIS LORDSHIP’S GRACE


YOU are now to remark, gentle reader, that this beautiful creature,
whom three humble courtiers of fortune were about to serve with
their faith, had, in addition to a nature of truly noble valiancy, a
knowledge of affairs that was highly pertinent, and a wit that was
wonderful indeed for one so tender in her years.

So soon as the English giant fell to driving the duke’s men-at-arms
before him like sheep, she ordered the Count of Nullepart and myself to
leave the daïs. We were advised to take up a new position between the
door, Don Luiz, and the duke. And when the Englishman returned with a
smile of humour about his mouth, yet breathing somewhat hard with his
exercise, the Countess Sylvia addressed her three servants in a low
voice.

“Forth of this, my friends. Let the door be secured behind us, so that
they cannot break out; and as there is no other, they shall play with
their thumbs for an hour while we prepare them a strategy.”

In the pursuit of this piece of wisdom, the four of us slipped into
the antechamber, while the foolish old duke, who had appeared utterly
to fail under the stress of these affairs, was still using so much
querulousness to his trusty gentleman-usher that he did not observe
the latest device of his daughter. Thus was he none the wiser for our
escape, nor for the project that was presently to be set afoot for his
undoing.

In the antechamber were the six soldiers who had been so mishandled by
one purposeful man of brawn. They stood in a group, regarding us with
unintelligent goatlike eyes. Her ladyship turned upon them, and said
scornfully, “Do you go and summon the smiths out of the armoury, you
paltry knaves. Send them here with their tools immediately.”

She then commanded the Count of Nullepart, Sir Richard Pendragon, and
myself to stand with drawn swords before the door leading to the duke’s
apartment, so that neither he nor his councillor should pass out before
it was sealed.

“Why, madam, these precautions?” asked the Count of Nullepart.

“It is my intention to draw out every fang that this old bear hath in
his chaps,” said the Countess Sylvia.

“How so, and why so, madam? Do you propose to wall up your old father,
his lordship’s grace, and do him to death with good Don Paunch, his
trusty fat man?”

“You ought to be wise, sir; you ask many questions,” said madam
imperiously. “But perhaps it were not amiss if I unfolded my design to
my good followers.”

“That is well spoke, thou sweet bud of the rose garden,” said Sir
Richard Pendragon. “Let us hear whether thy dear little poll be a
proper comrade to thy valiance.”

“Stand you to the door then, friends, and this is my design. While
his lordship’s grace is stewing and sweating in durance with that fat
fellow, and braying like an old mule for his liberty, I will have every
one of his three hundred men-at-arms answer to the roster. I will issue
a proclamation, by which they shall learn that in the person of their
mistress they have a new master; and each shall take the oath of his
fealty in his new service. And I will cause the master armourer and the
master treasurer to do the same, for I have to tell you, my friends,
that henceforward this castle is to have only one generalissimo.”

“Marry and amen!” said the Count of Nullepart, bowing low before her.

“By my hand!” said the English giant, imitating the Count of Nullepart
in this particular with as much grace as his inches and his nation
could arrange, “Harry of England breathes again in this small thing.
My sweet pretty ladyship, you have a right Pendragon at your elbow,
under whose doublet flows the blood of kings. And if thy performance,
perfect queen of the roses that thou art, be in anywise equal to thy
disposition, one of these sunny mornings they shall crown thee Queen of
all the Spains.”

“No, my good Sirrah Red Dragon,” said this beautiful creature, with
a natural dignity that nought could surpass, “I ask no more than my
right; I covet no dominion above my own. But that will I keep, God
helping me! There is like to come a bitter enemy at the gate; yet when
he rides up the hill and winds his trumpet, he shall find me within.”

“If there is not statecraft and good politics behind that cheek of
damask,” cried the Englishman, “I am a micher and a thief in the night.”

“Madam,” said I, feeling the same enthusiasm, “Miguel Jesus Maria de
Sarda y Boegas will yield you no lack in your affairs. They have a
strong hand to guide them, which they appear to need, but upon the
honour of my father, Don Ygnacio, and under the gracious permission of
your ladyship, I will not forswear your service while blood flows in my
veins.”

Hardly had I spoken than Sir Richard Pendragon began to roar like a
heifer.

“That name again!” he cried. “Ods life I can feel a fluxion! A surgeon,
or I perish!”

“Don Miguel,” said the Countess Sylvia with the gravest simplicity,
and paying no heed whatever to this unmannerly outcry of the English
barbarian, “I do need your good service, and I cherish it.”

Upon these words, spoken as became a princess, I fell to my knee and
saluted the hand of this valiant and noble lady.

“If I am not blind like a newt, this is my former squire that ran away
from me,” said Sir Richard Pendragon. “How came you again in this
parish, youthful varlet? But as I am a good Christian man, I am glad to
see thee. My young companion, I prithee, take my hand upon it.”

Although I gave him a smile of courtesy, I did not accede to his
request. For I had a lively recollection of his hand.

The arrival of the smiths put a term to our speeches. As soon as they
began to seal up the door with screws and nails, the duke and Don
Luiz, immured within, were moved to try it. Finding that with all
their shaking and rattling they could not come out, they set up a most
desperate hullabaloo.

“Their throats will wear a little sooner than this honest wood,” said
our mistress sternly.

She then bade the smiths cease their hammering while she spoke his
lordship’s grace and his fat companion.

“My lord,” she cried in her strong and clear young speech, “abate
your old foolishness for the space of one minute. I do but intend to
lock up your lordship’s grace for the term of two hours, while I have
deliverance made of your authority. I would have you play a game at
mumchance with your trusty fat man, while I muster your three hundred
men-at-arms and swear them to my service. If your lordship’s grace
will not babble so, and you will request that fat fellow whose bulk
is so large as a bag, who is so undecent in his appearance as any sow
that grouts in a kennel, if you will request him not to brawl so much,
you will be able to pass the time of day agreeably, and without that
excitement that is so inclement to the mind.”

“You speak like a physician, madam,” said the Count of Nullepart. “Your
words are as choice as though you held a diploma from the College of
Surgeons.”

“Aye, she speaks shrewd,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, wagging his beard
in cordial admiration of this beautiful and masterful thing. “She is
fit to advise a kingdom; one of these days she shall speak from a
throne to her respectful parliament. My dear and intimate friend, the
Dowager-Empress and Queen-Mother of the Austrian nation, never spoke
better sooth than she; never spoke it with a better use of tongue
and of language; never spoke it with a more subtle penetration of wit
or a more lofty and wise demeanour. I speak thee fair, sweet ladyship
and countess, and he who addresseth thee hath the blood of kings under
his doublet, don’t forget that. By my sword, if thou wert but of the
English nation, I would ask thine hand in matrimony, thou lovely chit,
and Betty Tucker, a good wench who can handle a tankard as well as
another at the sign of the Knight in Armour public-house, next the town
of Barnet, in the kingdom of Great Britain, should hang herself in her
shift or strangle herself in her garters.”

Much of that which followed of our conversation next the door of the
duke’s apartment was drowned by the incessant beating and brawling upon
the panel of those behind it. But the wood was staunch, and already
the smiths had the most of it screwed up. When they had finished their
task, and the Countess Sylvia was assured that his lordship’s grace
and his fat companion could not possibly come out, she dismissed the
smiths, and sent for the captain of the guard.

“Caballero,” she said to this worthy, “I would have you assemble
immediately our three hundred men-at-arms. Have them drawn up in
line of battle in the great courtyard, and let them appear in full
accoutrement. For I am about to speak to them, and to swear each
mother’s son to fealty upon the sword.”

“She speaks like a queen!” cried the English giant, with a roar of
delight. “Betty Tucker, if thine ear doth not burn with jealousy as
thou drawest that pot of small ale for that low jack pudding with a
ring in his lug, thou art no true woman. Thou little knowest, good Bet
o’ the Bib and Tucker--a weak jest, yet of mine own contrivance--thou
little knowest the imminent danger of our banns that were asked five
years come Maundy Thursday at St. Clement’s Church in London City.”

“Sirrah Red Dragon,” said the Countess Sylvia with a sternness that
cowed the English barbarian, “cease your babblements. You are a big
man, but you talk too much. Accompany me to the master armourer and
help inhabit me in a corslet and a steel cap; and if you will not use
the same bulk of language that you have of inches, you shall choose me
a good honest blade that I may bear in mine hand.”

“By cock,” cried Sir Richard Pendragon, “she speaks as shrewishly as
Betty when she hath been drinking cognac.”

The English giant, who might have borne the little Countess Sylvia
within the sleeve of his jerkin, accompanied her to the armoury with a
spreading yet withal something of a crestfallen air.

When they had passed the Count of Nullepart sat himself down on a
settle, and with a face twisted with mirth took forth his instrument
and strove to improvise a melody. Three times did he essay to do so and
three times did he fail.

“I am laughing myself into my tomb,” said he. “That is why I am so thin
and frail, my dear Don Miguel. All my days I have been cursed with a
passion for laughter, and it wears me to the bone. Oh, my good soul! do
you not hear his lordship’s grace beating his loud tattoos upon yonder
panel?”

“Do you still believe, dear Count of Nullepart, that our adorable one
will evanish into the air?”

“Yes, my friend, so far as she is any concern of ours. That English
giant will carry her off.”

“Never, Sir Count, as I am a caballero. He is a barbarian, an uncivil
Goth, a rude fellow. Besides, hath she not already punished the
presumption of his speech?”

“She is a woman, dear Don Miguel, and remark me, she will do something
whimsical. You and I, my dear, are men of the first ton, as they say at
Paris, but this barbarous giant, this ruffling English swaggerer, is
already the apple of that fine bright eye. Mark me, dear Don Miguel,
he is the hero. Did she ask you to choose a piece for her head at the
armoury and a sword for her hand; did she ask me? Not so, my dear
friend. She asks this gigantic island Goth, this swaggerer. And there
you have the whole of the female woman. Her mind resembles nothing so
much as a game of dice. None shall dare to predict what is turned up in
it: the double six at the first cast, at the second the double one.”

The Count of Nullepart had scarcely got through this prologue to his
philosophy when little madam, his thesis, returned with a proud walk,
wearing a steel cap that was so big that it fitted down over her ears,
a corslet of the same complexion that fell down over her knees, while
in her small hand was a piece of fine Toledo craftsmanship which yet
could not be called too delicate for a lady. How she could stagger
along at all under these accoutrements was a matter for surprise. Yet
not only did she do so, but also she contrived to invest her gait with
its natural dignity. At her side walked Sir Richard Pendragon, as near
seven feet as no matter, while the peak of the little Countess Sylvia’s
helmet appeared to ascend hardly above his leg. Yet, as in accordance
with the Count of Nullepart’s prediction, they already seemed mighty
close and pleasant with one another.

“My friends,” said the Lady Sylvia, “I have duly appointed Sirrah
Richard Red Dragon to the high office of master of my horse,
captain-generalissimo of my three hundred men-at-arms, and captain of
my guard, at an emolument of two thousand maravedis a month, including
his victual.”

“Three thousand, madam and ladyship, under your gracious pleasure and
permission,” said the Englishman.

“Did I say three, Sirrah Red Dragon? Dear, my good soul! my memory is
weak. Well, Sirrah Red Dragon, three it shall be.”

“To be disbursed in advance, worshipful madam and ladyship.”

“So be it, Sirrah Red Dragon. Your first emolument shall be paid to you
so soon as the master treasurer hath delivered to me the keys of the
coffers of his lordship’s grace.”

“And I crave the permission of your ladyship to suggest that sack be
included in the terms touching the victual.”

“Sack shall be included, sirrah.”

“Unlimited and without stint, madam, I trow and trust, and to be
delivered if I knock once on the buttery door.”

“Yes, indeed, good Sirrah Red Dragon, that is quite understood.”

The giant showed his teeth in a grin of broad humour and smacked his
lips complacently.

“Is there no post of honour in your household, madam, for the least of
your servants?” asked the Count of Nullepart in his softest accent.

“You will be keeper of accounts, sir, and also I will appoint you to
the mastership of the treasury.”

“I thank you, madam, and make you my service,” said the Count of
Nullepart.

“I have a mind to be master of the treasury myself, brother,” said Sir
Richard Pendragon, pricking up his ears. “You shall be captain of the
guard, brother, and I will take upon myself to hold the keys of the
mint.”

“Would you traffic in your office, Sirrah Red Dragon?” said his
mistress sternly. “I have a mind to remove you from the position of
master of my horse, and reduce your emolument by a thousand maravedis.”

A threat of this gravity had an instant effect upon the Englishman, who
fell to silence and the stroking of his beard; yet it was clear above
all things he yearned to hold the keys of the mint.

Our mistress now led the way to the great courtyard of the castle,
where the three hundred men-at-arms were to be assembled. How she
contrived to walk ten paces in her habiliments I know not, for, in
addition to the steel with which her slight person was encumbered, her
long riding skirt trailed over her heels.

However, before she came to the courtyard she must needs dispatch Sir
Richard Pendragon for a milk-white courser, if such a steed was to be
found in the stables of his lordship’s grace; or failing a quadruped
of that chaste hue, the master of the horse was to procure one as near
to that condition as he could discover.

“Statecraft, dear lady, statecraft!” said the Count of Nullepart with
an arch smile. “I perceive you are determined to present to your
warriors the appearance of the goddess of battles.”

Sir Richard Pendragon being unable to discover a courser of milk-white
hue was fain to lead a palfrey of a dubious dapple colour into the
austere presence of his mistress. She directed a glance upon it of the
most instant disapproval.

“Is there no worthier thing than this, Sirrah Red Dragon?” she demanded
haughtily.

“None, good countess, ladyship, and madam.”

“Wherefore, sirrah, wherefore?” she demanded, beating her sword on her
boot in a threatful manner. “You are the master of our horse, are you
not, and you keep no milk-white courser for our use? How so, Sirrah
Horse Master, wherefore and why?”

“Under your ladyship’s good favour,” said the giant humbly, “your good
Dick, an old honest fellow, hath not been in his office more than
twenty minutes.”

“Answer my question, sirrah,” stormed his mistress. “Why is there no
milk-white courser for my use?”

Sir Richard Pendragon plucked at his beard furiously, and directed a
sidelong look at the Count of Nullepart, who stood very upright and
gazing before him as solemnly as an owl in a cold evening.

“I have the greatest mind, Sirrah Red Dragon, do you mark me,” said
the Countess Sylvia, “to proceed on foot to swear my three hundred
men-at-arms. I have the greatest mind, I say, to proceed on foot. This
is no milk-white courser you have brought me; it is the colour of mud.
Am I one of a low condition, Sirrah Red Dragon, that I should repair to
meet my honest lieges on a horse that is the colour of mud?”

“Under your ladyship’s good favour,” said the giant modestly, “this
matter shall be rectified. I will procure a courser for you that shall
be as white as the driven snow. But you cannot have for asking, good
ladyship and madam, as we English say; therefore your good Dick, an old
honest fellow and a lover of sherris, must first hold a draft on the
treasury of your ladyship. The which, as this old honest fellow submits
duteously, the which would not be necessary were he entitled to hold
the keys of your ladyship’s treasury, as becomes his true merit and his
gentle nurture.”

“Peace, Sirrah Red Dragon,” said his mistress. “We will attend you in
council after a while.”

The weight of her accoutrements rendered it necessary to lift the
Countess Sylvia to the saddle, and there was almost a brawl among
her three devoted followers before this could be arranged. The Count
of Nullepart had the most address, the English barbarian had the
most power, and I myself, if I may make bold to say so, had the most
tenacity. Yet in the end, I believe, each one of us could claim a share
in this courteous operation. The subject of this attention, although
mishandled in some sort, yet retained a superb dignity and composure
through it all; and so far was she from visiting this procedure with a
reproof, that it did not seem to afford her the least displeasure.

In the great patio of the castle it was a glorious sight to see the
duke’s three hundred men-at-arms ranged around in a single file. The
bright sun wantoned brilliantly upon their arms and breastplates, and
when the Countess Sylvia rode into their midst, almost obscured in
armour except for the tip of her chin, the tip of her nose, a piece
of a damask cheek, and two clear and masterful eyes that glanced from
under their steel canopy with the brightness of the sword she bore in
her hand, they raised a cry from their honest throats. For they had
seen enough to be aware that beauty and genius reigned in that proud
mien. She took her place in their midst with the Count of Nullepart,
Sir Richard Pendragon, and Don Miguel Jesus Maria de Sarda y Boegas
beside her with drawn swords. Such a flashing and noble glance as she
directed along each row could never before have met these men-at-arms.

“Sirrah Red Dragon,” she said, “do you remove my headpiece that I may
speak them better.”

When the English giant lifted the steel canopy off her ears, and these
warriors, for the most part mercenaries, beheld so much beauty and
disdain, they raised another cry in her honour, for indeed there never
was a more superb thing.

“Lieges and virtuous bearers of my sword,” she said in her clear and
spreading speech, “from this day I am your captain. I will lead ye
truly through all the strait places. When the culverin bellows, the
caliver barks, and the good Toledo blades flash and clang together, you
will find me on my milk-white courser in the forefront of the battle,
vindicating mine own right with mine own puissance. There is a great
work toward, for our cousin John, the rude Castilian prince, bids us
deliver this fair castle into his covetous hand. But I do tell thee,
my honest lieges, it shall not be so. I have good servants; they shall
strike shrewd blows; and if the rude Castilian enters this castle, if
enter he must, he shall come in chains as a captive, or there shall not
be a stick or a stone or a breathing soul to give him welcome.”

At this moment the English giant standing at her side raised his
bonnet, adorned with a great plume, on the point of his sword, and
cried out in a voice that drowned everything: “These be words, these be
words! ’Tis queenly speaking! Give it tongue, friends and rascals! Let
the little queen’s majesty know that ye heed.”

In his own great voice this mad fellow led their shouts.

“I thank you, Sirrah Red Dragon,” said his mistress, “and, my honest
lieges, I say to you marry and amen. That ye will make true service I
see by your shining glances, but I would have you swear your fealty in
the olden manner upon this good sword. For I would have you to know
that my father, his lordship’s grace, fell into a strange senility a
twelvemonth since; there is such a distemper in his wits that he can no
longer ride over his dominion. His old eye, which should be an eagle’s
to look proud at the sun, now watereth readily on a small occasion.
There is no virtue in his mind; his heart hath not the constancy to
make him bold before an adversary. This rude Castilian prince, this
wicked king, would override him as easily as he would a plain of
mustard. Do you mark me, my lieges, his lordship’s grace is now a
figure for your tears. He is a pitiful old man, a babbler of nothings,
his mind is vanity. Therefore, my lieges, he and his trusty fat man,
whose ribs are larded like butter, and who is so slow in his mind as a
snail, will speak ye no more. From this day I am your duke and captain,
your liege lord and liege lady. I will lead ye against the Castilian
host, and if we do not prevail we will fall together with our swords in
our hands.”

“Again, again, brothers, give it tongue!” cried the English giant,
waving his plumed hat on the point of his sword, and leading the
soldiers in their lusty cheers.

“Sirrah Red Dragon,” said his mistress, when their cries had subsided,
“I would have you cause all these good honest men defile before us,
that they may be sworn upon our sword.”

“Would it not be properer, your majesty,” said the English giant,
with a dangerous light of admiration in his eye, “if you first made
them acquainted with their new captain-generalissimo, the captain of
the guard and master of the horse, whose emoluments amount to the not
inconsiderable sum of four thousand maravedis a month?”

“You speak sooth, Sirrah Red Dragon,” said the Countess Sylvia; “I will
do so.”

Again their respectfulness attended her while she recommended Sir
Richard Pendragon to their notice in another clear and ringing speech.

“A worshipful knight, a true warrior--”

“--And the blood of kings under his doublet, an it please your majesty.
I pray you, out of regard for virtue, to let them know that.”

The Countess Sylvia having condescended to inform her vassals of this
fact, together with many others that the English giant interpolated
into her discourse, somewhat to her impatiency, on matters touching
his many and surprising deeds by sea and land, the magnificence of
his talents and his ancestry, and diverse things of a like character,
he was able at last to bring himself to do her bidding. And you must
believe me, reader, it was one of the bravest sights in the world to
see these fierce men-at-arms, clad in bright steel, defile before the
palfrey of their mistress, and swear their devotion upon the good sword
she held so staunchly in her hand.



CHAPTER XVII

OF OUR ATTENDANCE IN COUNCIL UPON A GREAT MATTER


WHEN at last this gallant function had come to an end, and madam’s
servants and retainers had been duly sworn and dismissed with goodwill,
and even enthusiasm, upon their side, and a deal of majesty upon hers,
she and her three chief officers--although for one of them, by name Don
Miguel Jesus Maria de Sarda y Boegas, neither emolument nor employ had
been found up to this present--repaired from the heat of the sun to the
coolness of a chamber within the castle to partake of wine and other
refreshment.

“An it please you, madam, it might not come amiss,” said the Count of
Nullepart, “if in my capacity of master of the treasury I ventured to
propose that his lordship’s grace and his trusty fat man be disinterred
from their present situation, which, saving the presence of your
ladyship, may not be without its ignominy.”

“That is well spoken, friend,” said the Countess Sylvia. “Page. Where
is this page of ours? What, have we no page? Come hither, page! Page,
go you to the master armourer, and bid him, as he esteems his place,
to send his smiths immediately to unseal the door of his lordship’s
grace.”

“And of his trusty fat man,” said the Count of Nullepart.

“And of his trusty fat man,” said our mistress; “although that fat man
is so foolish as a dish of butter.”

“Touching my emoluments,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, eating his meat
almost as grossly as he did in the inn; “touching my emoluments,
countess, madam, and ladyship, it has entered my mind that it would
accord with my merit if in addition to my other honours I received the
more signal one of mastership of your ladyship’s treasury.”

“Peace, Sirrah Red Dragon,” said his mistress sternly; “and do you
endeavour to eat your roast pig like a Christian gentleman. Endeavour,
sirrah, to imitate the courteous delicacy in his feeding of the
worshipful Count of Nullepart. But peace, I say, for I would engage
the officers of my household upon a great affair. This castle is in
peril. I do fear that the rude Castilian and all his men will soon be
knocking on the gate. Would you have me dig pits and lay snares, Sirrah
Red Dragon, for you are our man of war? We have but three hundred
men-at-arms, and our villainous cousin will reckon his host by the
thousand.”

“By my hand,” said the Englishman, “this is a kettle of fish.”

He fell again into the habit of stroking his chin, and it was
remarkable to notice how a certain licence that was formerly to be
seen in his demeanour was suddenly found in it no more. “I am fain to
observe, madam,” said he with his new gravity, that seemed to have
worked a miracle within him, “that here is a pretty work to be done.”

“Done it shall be, Sirrah Red Dragon,” said the Countess Sylvia. “If we
spend every drop of our blood and that of every liege that is pledged
to our service, the Castilian shall not enter here; do you mark me,
sirrah!”

“We must address ourselves,” said the Englishman, “to providing this
garrison with arms and ordnance, sack and sugar, for I am sore to
believe we shall have to stand a siege. Madam, we must look to our
provision without delay, if we are to throw the gauntlet down.”

“It shall be done, sirrah; this Castilian shall have a welcome. How
long, bethink you, sirrah, can we hold this place with our three
hundred men-at-arms?”

“Two years, madam, with sufficient munitions of war. But these are to
obtain.”

“To-morrow,” said the Countess Sylvia, who, considering that she knew
no more of the world than her convent had taught her, showed a great
talent for affairs, “the hinds shall drive in the cattle from our
outlying farms; and arms and every sort of munition shall be purchased
so long as our treasury can provide them.”

“This castle has the appearance of a natural stronghold,” said the
Count of Nullepart, “although it is little I know of war.”

“Three hundred men should give a proud battle,” said I, “if they have
but one half the resolution of their mistress.”

“This is sooth,” said the Englishman; “I think we shall be able to hold
the gate against the king.”

“For mine own part,” said the Count of Nullepart in his winning voice,
“I would suggest that in the beginning we wear a silk gown over
our armour. We have nought to obtain by trying a fall with such an
adversary. Ought we not, bethink you, madam, to see what first can be
done by the gentleness of our address?”

“That is well said, Sir Count,” said she. “He shall have gentle words
in his ears. But remark me, if ever the occasion waits upon us he shall
also learn that we keep a sword.”

“Valiancy in action, subtlety in discourse,” said the Count of
Nullepart. “No kingdom could ask a choicer wisdom, madam. I drink to
you as a proud but as a just and a good princess.”

The sweetness of the Count of Nullepart’s manner made it difficult to
tell whether he toasted the lady in her beauty or the queen in her
statecraft. Before Sir Richard Pendragon and myself, who viewed his
action with no favourable eye, could decide whether such a behaviour
was justified at a moment so grave, for madam in spite of her dignity
had not thought fit to reprove him for it, there came a grievous
interruption to our counsels and the harmony of our board.

His lordship’s grace, with his trusty fat man at his heels, bore down
upon us.

“Ods myself,” he whined, shaking his fist, “if I do not put her in
a dungeon for this I am unfit to wear hose. Soh! there we have you,
little snake, surrounded by your conspirators. Luiz--Luiz; where are
you, Luiz? Go, fetch the guard. These three rogues shall be broke on
the wheel, and then they shall hang on the gate; and madam herself
shall dwell in a dungeon for an hundred days.”

“My lord,” said his daughter calmly, “do not interfere with the
business of the state.”

“Business of the state!” cried the duke. “I would have you to know,
madam, that I am the business of the state. Ods myself! if I had my
sword here I would spill some blood.”

In the violence of his anger the duke became so weak and incoherent
that at last he fell to weeping like a child. And as he was thus
engaged, and wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his rich silk doublet,
Don Luiz had the misfortune to appear with twelve soldiers of the guard.

“Sirrah Red Dragon,” said the Countess Sylvia, turning to the English
giant with a most masterful insolence, “as you value the command of my
good lieges, I would have you see to it that they take that fat fellow,
who is so beastly in his appearance that I hardly dare to give him a
name, and do you have him placed in a strait jerkin. And do you see to
it that he hath neither sack nor sugar, neither grease nor butter, nor
pig, nor flesh of any kind, nor German forcemeat, nor any article of
victual whatsoever that is likely in any degree to inflame his bulk.”

“I obey your command, madam and ladyship. I kneel at your feet,” said
the English giant, making a mighty flourish. The next moment the
unfortunate Don Luiz was marched forth, protesting violently, while the
old duke, at the sight of this grievous affront to his gentleman-usher,
fell to gnashing his teeth one moment and shedding tears the next.

“Where is my authority?” he cried out. “Am I without authority behind
mine own door? Oh, this is grievous, this is grievous! I have a
she-wolf for a daughter and she hath filled my old years with sorrow.
Is there no manhood in Spain! Will none protect a parent from the
machinations of a she-wolf? Do my goodly life and my clement nature go
for nought? Is there no consideration for the aged, who are blind of
eye, who are halt of their gait, who are smitten with ague and loss of
their appetites? Is there no virtue in the whole of this wicked and
ungracious world? Oh me, misery! I could weep till my poor soul was
drowned in a flood of tears.”

“If your lordship’s grace will not bawl like an old bull under the
moon,” said the little countess ruthlessly, “I will give you the leg of
an ortolan. These are great matters we are pledged to consider, and if
your lordship’s grace, which mops and mows like an old grey bear that
hath no teeth to tear its dinner, intrudes upon our deliberations so
unseasonably, we should do better to play at mumchance or to bite our
thumbs. Go into a corner and eat a fowl, and leave this assembly to
thwart the machinations of the rude Castilian.”

“Ay di me!” said the duke, “give me a wing then! This is a nice old
age to be so maltreated. Is there no virtue in the whole of the world!
Ay di me! I am the most misused parent in Spain. Give me a wing then,
proud hulks, give me a wing; and ods my good heart, I will never be a
parent again.”

His lordship’s grace being presently comforted with the carcass of an
ortolan, sat himself down on a stool in a corner of the apartment and
began to devour it fiercely. But hardly had the council resumed its
deliberations, when Sir Richard Pendragon returned wearing a mien of
high authority, and informed his mistress that a messenger was at the
gate bearing a cartel from the Castilian.

“Do you admit him, Sirrah Red Dragon,” said she. “Let him be brought to
our presence. We will hold speech with him.”

As the English giant went on this errand, the Count of Nullepart bent
across the council board, and whispered in the ear of the Countess
Sylvia, “Courteously, courteously, an it like your ladyship. Will madam
deign to remember that many a deep wound hath been abated by a fair
expression?”

“Peace, friend,” said the Countess Sylvia with a queenly look. “My
words are as I want them. I speak this Castilian in what sort I choose;
and I would have him to know that if I speak him soft he shall yet feel
my dagger. I have three hundred men of valiance, and I care not if the
rude Castilian were the King of the Russ.”

Surely a glance so flashing and a bearing of such high disdain never
shone about a mortal creature as those that enhanced this noble thing,
as she sat as staunch as an arrow before the council board, awaiting
the delivery of the cartel from the most powerful prince in Spain.



CHAPTER XVIII

OF THE AMBASSADOR OF THE RUDE CASTILIAN PRINCE


WHEN the ambassador came into the room, the duke rose from his stool,
and having carefully and politely removed the grease from the fingers
of his right hand, held out his hand for the cartel in an imperious
manner.

“Señor Ambassador,” said he, with the inimitable air which requires a
grandee of I know not how many quarterings to support, “I understand
you to come from our nephew of Castile. I will heed this, his mandate,
carefully.”

Upon receiving the parchment sealed massively in wax he removed the
grease from the fingers of his left hand and proceeded with patient
dignity to peruse the challenge.

In the meantime, the Countess Sylvia, seated at the board in the midst
of her council, was in a fury.

“Look at that old man!” she cried out. “Look at his thumbs! Why does he
use them upon the missive of the Castilian? Look, Sirrah Red Dragon, he
is reading it upside down!”

“Silence there at the top of the table,” said the duke, with the
grandeur of one who has wielded an unquestioned authority for
threescore years, yet having vainly endeavoured to peruse the document
in the manner his daughter had indicated. “Do you read it to us, good
plenipotentiary. Silence there, I say! If you do not close your trap,
you hulks, I will have you flogged with severity. Silence, I say again!
Ods nig and nog! was ever one who is old and a parent beset with so
much incivility!”

While the ambassador, a dark man in a dusty riding suit of Cordovan
leather, and accompanied by a retinue of three as dusty as himself,
proceeded to read the terms of the cartel aloud to the duke, his
lordship’s grace fell again to devouring the ortolan. By the time the
messenger had reached the part in which the Castilian bade his uncle
deliver up his castle hard by the city of Toledo, and bade him retire
to his lesser manor in the province of Leon, the old man began to
babble and whimper, and finally to break into tears.

“Look at him! look at him!” cried the Countess Sylvia. “If your
lordship’s grace would wipe your old red eyes on your cuff, and eat
your fowl like a Christian, and cease to roar like a horse as it walks
up a hill, I and my good counsellors might frame a fitting answer to
the Castilian.”

“Ods myself!” snuffled his lordship’s grace, “sooner than I will be a
parent again I will cut my throat.”

With a proud voice the Lady Sylvia bade the envoy of the Castilian come
up to the high table and present the cartel to her. She received it
with every mark of disgust; and, indeed, the fingers of his lordship’s
grace had robbed it of that fair appearance it may have formerly
enjoyed. But when she came to read this document her mood changed to
one of flaming anger, since the manner of the Castilian’s epistle was
indeed of the sort to fret a lofty spirit.

“‘Too long, good my uncle Roldan, hast thou held thy demesne’”--the
little countess read particular passages aloud with unutterable scorn.
“‘Thy situation above the great city of Toledo, the first of our
realm, cannot be borne. Yourself is a good and honest prince, good
my uncle Roldan, but your grace hath the whole of your worthy manor
of Aldoleda in which to inhabit your excellent old age. Your noble
mountain fortress is necessary to our design, for our kingdom must
be so strong that we fear no enemies. We would have you deliver this
fortress, together with two hundred men-at-arms, unto us within the
space of twenty days; and by these presents we do engage not to molest
your grace and good my uncle Roldan in your worthy manor of Aldoleda,
in which fair place your honourable old age will not lack security.’”

Verily I think there never was such an imperious anger as that of
the Countess Sylvia as slowly she deciphered the contents of this
pronunciamento with the aid of myself and the Count of Nullepart. She
tore the missive down the middle and flung it on the ground.

“Envoy,” she said, “get you gone as you value your neck, and do you
inform our cousin Castile that I spurn him as I would a mad wolf.”

“Softly, softly,” whispered the Count of Nullepart to his mistress. “I
pray you, madam, not to forget your statecraft in this affront to your
ambition.”

“Peace, sirrah!” said the Countess Sylvia. “If the envoy doth not
withdraw I will have him impaled.”

The emissary of the king bowed low.

“Madam,” he said, “my business, under your favour, is with his grace
the Duke of Montesina.”

“There is no Duke of Montesina; his lordship’s grace was deposed at
twelve o’clock this day. Myself am the master and the mistress here.”

“She speaks sooth, Master Envoy,” said Sir Richard Pendragon. “If the
gracious countess so much as frowns since this morning, every stick and
stone within these walk doth fall into a most violent trembling.”

“My business is with his grace the Duke of Montesina,” said the envoy
staunchly.

“Do I not tell thee his lordship’s grace is deposed?” said the Countess
Sylvia. “He is as weak in his mind as a seamew.”

“And I venture, Master Envoy,” said I, with a touch of our famous
northern penetration, “to suggest that the king your master is aware of
this calamity.”

“That is nothing to the case, sir,” said the envoy, waiving this
inconvenient suggestion aside. “My business is with your master the
duke, and I would fain transact it.”

“There is no duke, do I not tell thee, stupid one!” said the Countess
Sylvia. “Do I not say he is deposed?”

“Deposed!” cried his lordship’s grace, hearing the words of his
daughter and understanding them, for although his wits were deranged
they were susceptible of strong flashes of reason. “Deposed! Who speaks
thus? Who dares say that there is no duke? I would have you to know,
Master Ambassador, and all the world to know it also, that there is a
duke, and he is a duke of vim and valiance. Deposed! Ods myself! these
are the words of a wicked hulks. As I am a parent, Master Ambassador,
I have the most ingrateful daughter in Spain.”

“Envoy,” said the Countess Sylvia, “I pray you do not heed that old
man. He is as immoderate in his motions as a frog in a moist afternoon.
His wits are weak; there is a cloud in his mind; he babbles foolishly.”

“Luiz!” cried the duke--“where’s my good Luiz? Where art thou, Luiz?
Fetch the guard, good gossip, and as I am a parent, this ingrateful
hulks shall go to the house of correction.”

“Do not heed him, envoy,” said her ladyship. “This old man is
forwandered in his mind like a bat in the daylight. Speak him fair, but
heed him not. He is a babbler.”

“Come to me, Luiz--come to me!” cried the duke, brandishing the carcass
of the ortolan. “Why do you not come to me, good fat man? Will you
see me sounced by the tongue of a jade? Deposed, says she! I babble
foolishly! Come to me, Luiz, as thou art a good Christian man, and I
will have her scourged.”

There could never have been a more whimsical sight since the world
set up in business than the distraction of the King of Castile’s
ambassador, himself a man of bearing and nobility, standing in the
midst of his astonished retinue, as he gazed from one to the other of
those who addressed him. Yet it was presently borne in upon him by
the outrageous speaking of the poor old duke, and the vacancy of his
eyes, that all his politics, in whatever they might consist, were like
to be over-ridden by the imperious will that had assumed the reins
of governance. Therefore, after awhile, he adopted the only wise
and possible course, which was to accept the little countess as the
principal in this affair. And in spite of all that we, her counsellors,
could do to impose some check upon her speech--for the Castilian had
the name of being as proud a prince as there was on the earth--she
refused to soften her words, and insisted that the envoy should bear
them to his master.

“And further, Don Jose de Fermosilla,” said she, “I would have you bid
Castile, our cousin, assemble all his hosts and bring them hither, and
they shall not lack for a welcome. They shall receive good play of
sword and pike, halberd and musket, and every conceivable engine of
belligerency. Are we mud, Don Jose de Fermosilla--are we mud, I say,
myself and his lordship’s grace (myself having all the grace of his
lordship since a little before noon this day)--are we mud, sirrah, that
this Castilian speaks us unmannerly? By my sooth, Don Jose, this is a
rude prince; but as there is a nerve in our right hand--do you mark me,
sirrah?--upon a day his sauciness shall not go unvisited.”

“O statecraft! O statecraft!” said the Count of Nullepart in a low
voice and smiling softly.

At these words of the Lady Sylvia, which had been uttered with every
mark of disdain, the bearer of the cartel drew himself up with a proud
mien, and said with much haughtiness on his own part,--

“Madam, as you are young and a woman, I would humbly propose, although
it is no part of my province to propose it, that you weigh your words
again in the scale before you publish them to the King’s majesty. It
would be a pitiful matter if in the inclemency of his temper he harried
his lordship’s dominion and razed both his castles to the earth.
For I would have you to know, madam, that there is no prince in all
Christendom to whom such words would come more amiss. He is so instant
in his nature that on shorter terms than these he would put the whole
of this garrison to the sword.”

“He is welcome to do this, Don Jose,” said our mistress fearlessly,
in spite of the fact that the Count of Nullepart was plucking at the
sleeve of her robe, “if he is able.”

“He does not stand without ability, madam, if the truth must be
spoken,” said Don Jose. “He can come before your gates in a fortnight
with five thousand men, with artillery and engines of the latest
capacity.”

“He shall be welcome, sirrah.”

“You, madam,” said Don Jose scornfully, “have three hundred soldiers in
your service, as I am informed. Whoever heard such proud words, madam,
upon so much insufficiency?”

“Harkee, Don Jose,” said the little countess menacingly, “I would not
have you give too free an expression to your private ideas, for there
are dungeons under this castle which on a day have held your betters.”

“So I believe, madam,” said Don Jose. “But I stand in the light of one
who would come between a woman and her inclination. Yet I would ask you
to believe, madam, that in this matter I am your sincere well-wisher.”

“We none of us doubt that, sir,” said the Count of Nullepart in his
sweetest accent, and looking upon the messenger with his charming
melancholy. “And if, sir, you will heed madam’s youth rather than her
speaking, you will be her good servant. If you will have the goodness
to inform the King your master that his cartel has been received with
all consideration and honourable courtesy; that his grace the Duke
of Montesina will bestow all possible attention upon it during the
interregnum of twenty days which his Majesty has nominated with so much
kindness; and that any decision at which his grace may arrive shall
be delivered to the King your master by another hand, all within this
castle shall ever be yours in all humility.”

“Yes, that is right speaking,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, who had
almost assumed the demeanour of a cardinal; “that is a ripe wisdom and
a courteous maturity.”

“You speak well, sir,” said Don Jose de Fermosilla, making a low bow.
“And I convey that message to the King, my master.”

“Perhaps it were not amiss, Sir Count,” said I, “if you put your good
words in writing. Were it not well to call a scrivener?”

“Truly,” said the ambassador, “that would indeed be well.”

The Countess Sylvia, however, was furiously angry, but those three
councillors who strove humbly to serve her attended her humours with
the highest patience. Yet, for all their devices, they were not able
entirely to succeed, for as soon as the scrivener was come into the
room she bade him leave her presence on the pain of death.

In such circumstances our natural ally was the duke. But so completely
had his lordship’s grace been overborne by the heats and violences
of the day, that having picked his ortolan, he had duly fallen asleep
on his stool in the middle of the negotiations. Therefore it remained
for us, her councillors, to soften the affront that was like to be
put by our mistress upon the Castilian. Yet in the end we could do no
better than put our faith in the humanity and discretion of Don Jose de
Fermosilla to represent the attitude of madam with a becoming leniency.
For again and yet again did she announce her determination to flout her
insolent cousin. And presently matters were brought to such a pass that
it was only the highly diplomatic conduct of Sir Richard Pendragon in
feigning utter deafness when she called on him in peremptory tones to
summon the guard to have the envoy and the Count of Nullepart himself
placed in a dungeon for seeking to outface her, that made it possible
to conclude the matter at all.

In the end Don Jose took his departure with a promise to the Count of
Nullepart, Sir Richard Pendragon, and myself that he would represent
this matter to the King his master in a spirit of forbearance. In spite
of that, I think none of us reposed much faith in his assurances,
which, in the face of madam’s arrogance, were given by no means
heartily. Indeed, as he took his leave his eyes were furtive and
lowering, and in his mien was neither kindness nor friendship. As for
our mistress, surely there never was so much queenly insolence as when
the ambassador made to withdraw.

“We take no leave of you, Don Jose de Fermosilla,” said she. “We make
you and your master no compliments. You have incurred our highest
displeasure.”

Don Jose de Fermosilla bowed stiffly, and with his retinue passed out
at the door.

“Call him again!” cried the Countess Sylvia to those who were in
attendance.

Don Jose returned, yet there was no abatement of his dark looks.

“I would have you proceed backwards, out of our presence, Don Jose de
Fermosilla,” said madam insolently. “And do you inform our cousin that
it is nothing to our pleasure that we must keep a school of manners for
his emissaries.”

Don Jose de Fermosilla withdrew in the desired manner, biting at his
lips with chagrin.



CHAPTER XIX

OF MADAM’S EMBASSY TO HER NEPHEW FRANCE


WHEN the audience had terminated in this unfortunate manner, madam’s
three councillors sat long together in anxious intercourse.

“If I comprehend the disposition of man,” said the Count of Nullepart
gloomily, “and more particularly the temper of princes, the puissant
Castilian will be before our gates in twenty days.”

“God speed his journeying, Sir Count,” said madam, the wilful cause of
our foreboding. “The sooner Castile affronts our gate the sooner shall
he learn our steel.”

“We have but three hundred men-at-arms, madam,” said the Count of
Nullepart.

“They shall bear themselves as thirty thousand,” said our mistress.

Madam’s three councillors exchanged glances with one another. They
spoke aside.

“The most puissant prince in Spain, and we have but three hundred
men-at-arms with which to deny him,” said the Count of Nullepart.

Sir Richard Pendragon teased his short chin beard.

“I’ facks,” said he, “they may be good men all and we three as a
legion, but an elderly soldado who has drawn his point on an hundred
fields in Europe and Asia Minor likes at least the same number of chins
under the same number of noses as his adversary.”

“Are ye fearful, Sirrah Red Dragon?” said the Countess Sylvia,
regarding her favourite officer with disdain.

“Not fearful at all, good your ladyship,” said the English giant, “not
fearful at all, but yet addicted to the process of thought, like all
deep minds of my nation.” Again the mighty warrior teased his short
chin beard.

“We need an army,” said I, “and yet three hundred soldiers is the whole
of our garrison.”

“And this is a fair manor,” said the Englishman, “and Richard
Pendragon, knight, has a crow to pluck with the Castilian.”

This speech caused the Lady Sylvia to train the glance of a hawk upon
the Englishman.

“My good Sirrah Red Dragon,” said she, “by the same token I am inclined
to remember that our nephew France hath also a crow to pluck with the
Castilian.”

At these words the Count of Nullepart rose from the council board with
some little perturbation.

“Your nephew France, madam,” he said. “Your nephew France.”

Madam perused the Count of Nullepart’s countenance with a surprised
inquiry.

“Sir Count,” said she, “I mentioned my nephew France. Have you the
acquaintance of France, our worthy nephew?”

“Yes, madam,” said the Count of Nullepart with something of
embarrassment, “that is, I mean no--that is, I mean--”

“What is the substance of your meaning, Sir Count?” said madam with
petulance.

“It has no substance, madam,” said the Count of Nullepart.

The Count of Nullepart resumed his place at the council board with an
assumption of composure.

Sir Richard Pendragon took up the thread of the discourse.

“By my hand,” said he, “this is very like a providence, to use a
favourite idiom of Ferdinando the Ninth, a friend of my youth and
hereditary sovereign of the Russ. If, madam, your nephew France--and
craving your forgiveness, my dear soul, Richard Pendragon, honest
fellow, had not guessed that, like himself, your ladyship’s grace had
all these well placed relations--if, madam, as you say, your nephew
France--how pleasantly, to be sure, the name trips off the tongue of
one who hath the blood of kings under his doublet!--in fact, madam, in
the circumstances might I not say _our_ nephew France?--if, madam, as I
say, _our_ nephew France has a crow to pluck with the Castilian, is not
this the very season in which to begin the pulling of feathers?”

“I offer you no contradiction, Sirrah Red Dragon,” said the Countess
Sylvia with her bearing of beautiful disdain, and with I know not how
many generations of statecraft in her glance.

The English giant caused the board to groan with a blow from his great
hand.

“By this hand!” he said, “your mind is a good one, madam. You are young
and a female and you live in Spain, but you have a good mind. It is
I suppose that even in Spain the blood of kings confers an especial
nobility. Richard Pendragon, knight of Great Britain, of the Welsh
Marches and the Island of Manx, is in accordance with you. The hour
strikes; your nephew France must pluck his crow with the Castilian.”

“Sir Richard Pendragon,” said the Count of Nullepart, “your speaking
is choice, yet what if by a strange mischance the good France hath not
heard the striking of the hour?”

Madam silenced the Count of Nullepart with her imperious glance.

“We will send an embassy,” said she. “This very day we will send an
embassy to Paris.”

This high resolution of madam’s was received with instant favour by
her councillors. Sir Richard Pendragon acclaimed it as the flower of
wisdom; the Count of Nullepart gave it the accomplished and mature
sanction of one who had moved much in the world; while I, who in
years and merit was not the peer of these gentlemen, yet gave it the
approbation of blood as honourable as any to be found in Spain.

A scrivener was called immediately to set in writing the proposal of
the Countess Sylvia to her nephew France. First assuring her nephew of
her personal affection for him, and a great interest in the prosperity
of his affairs (a suggestion of the Count of Nullepart, who seemed
highly versed in these documents), she proceeded in the language of
diplomacy, in which the count continued to discover no little skill, to
ask the immediate aid of four thousand men-at-arms in order that she
might defend her heritage from a common enemy.

When this document was duly drawn up in folio, and the Count of
Nullepart read aloud in his beautiful voice the terms which had been
choicely expressed, and madam, with the air of one who held an empire
within the palm of her small right hand, appended her signature
with great difficulty, after twice consulting the scrivener as to
the fashion of spelling her baptismal name, that it might accord
with the practice of the most learned and best found minds of the
age--“Because,” as she said, “if we use an ‘i’ when a ‘y’ is considered
more modish, our nephew may believe we are more rustic here at
Montesina than they are at Paris”--after this had been accomplished
and the great ducal seal had been appended, a controversy arose among
her ministers as to whose should be the honour of conveying it to its
destination.

Madam herself was disposed to entrust it to the charge of the Count
of Nullepart, since the grace of his appearance and the charm of his
address and his knowledge of the conduct of high diplomacy seemed
to mark him out for a mission of this nature. Yet no sooner had our
mistress shown a disposition to give this sanction to the Count of
Nullepart than Sir Richard Pendragon took umbrage.

“Good countess and ladyship,” said he, “by the body of God! I would not
have you consider Richard Pendragon froward or lacking in his devoirs
to one who deserves all homage. But can you have forgotten, madam, that
the blood of kings flows under the doublet of that high-minded and
courteous knight, of that gentle-nurtured and civil-tongued emblem of
English chivalry, who has moved in court circles since his natal hour?”

“Your merit is ever before us, Sirrah Red Dragon,” said the Countess
Sylvia, who still permitted the English giant to stand in high favour.
“Your claims are honourable, but the worshipful Count of Nullepart has
natural parts.”

Sir Richard Pendragon turned down his lip with the look of a child that
is petulant.

“By your leave, noble countess,” he said, “Richard Pendragon claims
precedence in this high business by right of consanguinity. His royal
nature, the lineal strain of Uthyr, cannot suffer it that Mounseer
Nullepart, who is passing honest and a good fellow, shall take
precedence of him at the court of France.”

Upon this speech of the Englishman, the Count of Nullepart was moved to
smile in a fashion so subtle that he was fain to cover his face with
his hand, as if to withhold its meaning.

“Not for the world, Sir Richard,” he said, with his eyes full of
laughter--“nay, not for a thousand worlds would I take precedence of
you at the court of France.”

As he spoke he was overwhelmed by a sudden and uncontrollable mirth.

“Why do you indulge, Sir Count, in this immoderation?” said madam
curiously.

“The court of France is such an uncommonly dull place, madam,” said the
Count of Nullepart, with the mirth still in his eyes.

“Do you forget, Sir Count,” said madam haughtily, “that France is our
nephew?”

“I do not forget it, madam,” said the Count of Nullepart; “I only
marvel the more that such an aunt should have such a nephew.”

Again the Count of Nullepart began to laugh immoderately, and it was
plain by the demeanour of our mistress that she must have reproved his
behaviour had she not been altogether disarmed by his words.

It was here, as became a high-born caballero of my nation, that I
advanced my own claims to this service, however modest they might
appear. After all, my two worthy coadjutors, whatever their honour and
their merit, were no more than foreigners, and this was the business of
Spain.

“Under your favour, madam,” said I, “I am a kinsman of the Sardas y
Boegas, whose boast it hath been since the time of Alban II. that they
have served a prince of Spain. By right of natural affinity I claim to
serve your grace.”

“You, brother,” said the English giant, breaking into a great roar,
“you claim to serve her grace! Why, brother, you will best serve
the grace of her ladyship by holding her trencher when she eats her
nuncheon.”

Madam, however, inclined a courteous ear.

“And further, noble countess,” said I, under the encouragement of her
regard, “this embassy is like to be one of peril. The road to France is
dangerous, and much of it is the dominion of an enemy.”

“Why, you mad Iberian varlet,” cried the Englishman, “do you deny the
address of a right Pendragon to outface the dangers of the way?”

“Good Sir Richard Pendragon,” I replied, “I do not question your
address. It is because it is so great that I would not expose it to the
accidents of travel. Madam never was in need of such notable service;
you are her most notable servant; therefore I would humbly submit that
you continue to sit with her in council, and devise a proper plan of
war, while one who is less in mother-wit and masterful consideration
embraces the perils of the road.”

Sir Richard Pendragon was well pleased with words so caressing to his
self-esteem.

“This,” said he, “is good speaking for a Spaniard; and as I am a true
man and a man addicted to high policy, I commend you, Don Miguel, for
you have spoken well. But this embassy to the good France is an affair
of moment. It touches one of the first princes of his age; and as he is
one of the few at present living in Europe and Asia that one who hath
grown old in the love of virtue hath not met, that true mind and honest
mettle claims to conduct these negotiations by right of consanguinity.”

I know not how long we sat in council, each advancing his several
claims to serve our mistress in this particular; and she, good soul and
very woman, conferred no harmony upon our board. It pleased her well
that her three servants should display this zeal to make trial of their
merit; and though her mien declared that she was fain to consider each
to be worthy, yet which of her sex will be content with one when three
contend to do her service?

And so, when we were weary with our contention, and that momentous
day began to wane, we reconciled our rivalry in the only natural and
possible manner. As not one of us would yield his claims, and as each
was equally worthy in his own opinion, and equally eligible in that
of our mistress, it was proposed by the Count of Nullepart, in that
agreeable fashion that none knew how to resist, that the three of us
should brave the perils of the road together. And at last, reluctantly,
and each with a glance at the other, we gave our assent; whereupon
madam, without any reluctance at all, gave hers with the gravest
dignity.

Even when we had conducted our negotiations to this issue, there was
one other matter to come between us and harmony. To whom was the folio
to be entrusted? In this, however, Sir Richard Pendragon showed a
measure of arbitrariness that was only to be deplored. He took the
signed and sealed document from off the council board, saying that,
“by right of consanguinity,” he claimed the prerogative of presenting
it to the good France; and that “if either Mounseer or little Don
What-did-he-call-himself questioned that right, let him be good enough
to pluck these letters of marque from a doublet that enclosed the blood
of kings.”



CHAPTER XX

OF OUR ROAD TO PARIS


THE sun had scarce begun to creep from behind his white curtain when,
on the following day, madam’s three ministers set forth on their
embassy. The road to Paris was more than an hundred leagues. The first
part of it lay through the very heart of Castile; much of it was
difficult and beset with peril for the traveller, and particularly for
those upon such a service as ours. Yet upon this beautiful morning of
midsummer, as we rode forth from the castle down the steep winding
track, these jealous servants of a noble mistress gave not a thought to
the dangers that might befall.

As we took the road our chief concern was to come to King Louis at
Paris with all expedition, and to return again with all the speed
possible in the company of an armed host, that the designs of the
Castilian might be thwarted. With madam’s high courage and a tolerable
address on the part of her garrison, her fastness might be held against
an enemy until our return. Yet we felt that every hour was of price,
and that there was not one to lose.

Judge, then, of our concern when upon coming into Toledo, Sir Richard
Pendragon stayed his horse at that fonda we had come to know so well.
He declared that, “Castilian or no Castilian, he must break his fast,”
and acquire a store of victual to bear with him during the day. “For,”
as he declared, “Spain was a most cursed country, and unless you had
been bred to eat sand and brown dust, you were like to go short at your
meals in the course of a long excursion.”

The Englishman declined to be moved by our prayers to hurry his
campaign at the inn table. “The belly is a proud jade,” he said, “and
apt to take affront at a small thing. It was through an intemperate
haste at his meals that one of the foremost among my ancestors was fain
to renounce the eating of roast pig, that most delectable of cates, at
the age of one-and-thirty.”

Sir Richard Pendragon having at last, as he expressed it, “coaxed the
rude jade into a humour of some civility,” made to mount his tall
horse, which stood solemnly munching corn before the inn door. But as
he did so there arose an altercation with the innkeeper, for, following
his usual practice, the Englishman showed no disposition to pay his
score. However, as we moved off, the Count of Nullepart threw a piece
of money to the astonished and complaining host.

Nevertheless we had scarcely gone the distance of a single street when
Sir Richard Pendragon again dismounted. In one of the bazaars which
abound in this city he purchased a handsome cloak edged with fur, which
put the tattered garment he was wearing to the blush. His bonnet also
received a new white feather for its adornment. “It was not seemly,” he
said, “that one of his lineage should come before the good France like
a guy in a field of young beans, lest France, who was a good fellow,
should consider him to be one of the Spanish nobility.”

Upon these loose words I felt my hand stray to the hilt of my sword.
And although our situation was one of great instancy, and my incapacity
to cope with the Englishman’s skill in this weapon was notorious, we
must have crossed blades in the public street had not the peace been
indebted to the notable behaviour of the worshipful Count of Nullepart.
His apologies for this rude foreigner were so delicate that I swallowed
my choler in what sort I might; and to such a point did the Count of
Nullepart carry his courtesy that he even brought the Englishman to say
that his reference to the Spanish nobility “was only his humour, which,
as was the case with his nation, was apt to lead him into all kinds of
fantasy; although foreign peoples, who lived in dark places, and rubbed
but seldom against enlightened minds, could never addict themselves to
this English pleasantry. Y’are solemn rogues, you continentals,” he
concluded. “I don’t wonder you require so much holy water and so many
masses for your souls.”

As we came through the market-place there were hens and turkeys exposed
for sale in the open bazaars. To the astonishment of those who sold
these wares, Sir Richard Pendragon lifted a number of them on to
his saddle on the point of his sword, saying “that, in his opinion,
although doubtless it was his English whimsicality, their flavour, if
roasted gently over a sea-coal fire, compared not unfavourably with the
finest Spanish sand and the fattest Spanish flies.”

The Count of Nullepart and myself being of this mind also, our
companion left to us the task of appeasing those who had thus been
ravished of their wares. Yet even to us he addressed a remonstrance.
“Is it good silver money you are giving these poor souls?” he said.
“I dare say it is the continental custom, but it marks an essential
difference between the nations of the earth. We quick-moving islanders
are more peremptory. You continentals ask a ‘by your leave,’ and live
by the power of the purse; we English all the world over claim our own
where we find it.”

In this, at least, I think Sir Richard Pendragon must have had a just
appreciation of his countrymen. For all the long leagues we rode with
him upon our embassy it was never once our hap to find him with his
hand within his poke.

When we had come out of Toledo, and had got fairly upon the narrow
winding tracks which traversed the great wilderness that was spread
before us, Sir Richard Pendragon began to show a great concern for
robbers. His eyes were continually casting about the horizon. No bush,
no rock, no tree escaped his dark suspicion; his hand was upon the
hilt of his sword a hundred times a day. At every turn of the road
he expected to see a robber; and, indeed, as the day wore on without
any sort of an encounter, it seemed to be a grief to him that robbers
were so few. But if we came upon any chance wayfarers, to judge by the
haste which they made to get clear of our path, I should say that this
opinion was not general.

“By my soul,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, as three honest, grey-bearded
merchants upon comely asses scurried away up a steep mountain path,
“these Spaniardoes are the poorest spirited people upon the face of the
earth. If I had not had a good mother, and she had not had a good son,
I might have unloaded those fish-blooded burgesses so easily as I drink
sherris.”

Whereupon Sir Richard Pendragon sighed profoundly.

We made many leagues that first day of our journey, although we rested
at noon in a small hamlet from the heat of the sun. It may have
been that we had entered upon our adventure not too propitiously,
and that the humours of the Englishman made but an odd sort of
companionship--notwithstanding a liberal rebate for the qualities of
kings’ blood--for one who boasted the sangre azul of a true hidalgo;
yet the wisdom and politeness of the humane and ever-delightful Count
of Nullepart kept us all three to the road, and brought us in a state
of toleration one of another to a wayside venta at the end of the long
day.

In this rustic place we enjoyed a good supper and a peaceful night’s
repose. We had journeyed long that day, and seldom have I known an
honest sleep taste more delicious. But by now we were well in the King
of Castile’s country, and the next morning, as we took our way, the
vigilance of the Englishman grew double. The Count of Nullepart and
myself were tolerably easy that none would guess our mission. Not so
Sir Richard Pendragon. He declared his experience of Castile to be such
that walls had ears, blind men saw, and dead men told tales.

Indeed, it was clear from the lively concern that Sir Richard displayed
that his former passages with the King of Castile had not been pleasant
ones. Precisely what they were we could not learn from him who had
suffered them, yet that they had been grievous and considerable we had
the authority of his demeanour.

On the second day, as we came into the road to Madrid, we saw high up
in the distant hills one of the noblest castles of this infamous king.
At the sight of it, with the westering sun touching the embowery of
its trees with gold, Sir Richard Pendragon reined in his horse, took
off his hat, and spat on the earth; and then, in what must have been
the roundest London English, for it sounded very rude and barbarous,
he cursed the King of Castile, he cursed his mother and his female
relations, even unto his wet nurse and his most distant kinsfolk.

“The first trick is yours, Spanish John,” he said. “I allow it; I admit
it; my early nurture has been too gentle to cope with low deceit. But
harkee, John Spaniard, the next trick will go to t’other player, or my
gracious sire was not the King of England.”

“Do I gather, most worthy Sir Richard Pendragon,” said the Count of
Nullepart in a melodious voice, “that your former passages with King
John of Castile have been of a grievous character?”

“Yes, good mounseer,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, giving his tall horse
such a kick in the ribs as astonished that extraordinary quadruped;
“you may gather it. If my good mind walks not abroad in bad dreams,
I have been mishandled, mounseer, I have been mishandled. And let me
tell thee, good mounseer, English Dick hath never been mishandled
previously, except once at the instance of virtue, which was upon the
knee of the sainted lady who is now in heaven.”

As we pursued our way towards the capital of the King’s dominion, a
profound silence overtook the Englishman. His dark and lowering looks
were the palpable fruit of a former bitterness; and as we came into
Madrid at nightfall, the numerous soldiers we passed in the streets
wearing the Castilian’s livery seemed to inflame his humour. Indeed,
as we entered the first venta we came to within the gates of the city,
and as we were disposing of our horses in comfort for the night, he
was moved to say that “if his humour did not lift after supper, he was
minded to go out in the streets and cut a few throats, as the sight of
so many jackbooted rascals twirling their moustachios was as sore to
him as the presence of holy water was to the Author of Deceit.”

The stabling of this venta was divided from the great kitchen of the
inn by a short arched passage-way. Upon crossing this we found to
our good pleasure that the hearth was entirely at our disposal, as
there was no other company in the inn. Over the fire was suspended
a cauldron, and this we regarded with favour. After we had supped
worthily, we prepared ourselves for the repose we so much desired; but
it was written that there should be no sleep for us that night.

Scarce had we disposed ourselves about the chimney-place for the
slumber for which we yearned, when the first of the passages that were
to ensue came upon us. A number of soldiers wearing the livery of the
King came into the inn kitchen, bawling for wine and victual. These
men, in their high boots and long cloaks and great hats, and with their
long moustachios, were extremely formidable to look upon; and the Count
of Nullepart and myself, conscious as we were of the strange mood of
our companion, no sooner beheld these fellows than we regretted their
intrusion exceedingly.

Sir Richard Pendragon, as became an old campaigner, had his eyes
already sealed in slumber, and was beginning to snore loudly as he
reclined with his enormous legs stretched out to the hearth, when these
soldiers entered so unseasonably. As they came swaggering up to the
cooking-pot, abusing the landlord loudly that no food was ready, one
of them had the misfortune to trip over the Englishman’s far-extended
limbs. As he measured his length he swore a horrid oath in rude Spanish.

The Englishman gave a grunt and opened his eyes sleepily, and seeing
the soldier sprawling on all fours, he said to the innkeeper, who was
about to add a fowl to the pot, “Landlord, ye should not admit bears
and dromedaries and beasts with four feet among the nobility. The
nobility do not like it.”

The Englishman’s insolent tone was heard by the comrades of the fallen
one, who numbered eight or nine. They looked at him as though they
could not believe what their ears had told them, and then their hands
flew to the hilts of their swords. By this, however, the fallen one had
risen to his feet. He pulled his moustachios and rolled his eyes with
fury.

“By the devil’s life!” he cried, “you foreign dog, I will cut out your
liver!”

And as he spoke he drew his sword with a flourish.



CHAPTER XXI

OF OUR FIRST PASSAGES WITH THE CASTILIAN


KNOWING the temper of our companion towards all of this complexion, we
expected no less of him than that he would spring to his feet at once
and have at this ruffler. But, to our surprise, he remained just as he
was, not stirring a hand, yet abating his speech into a curious kind of
softness, which seemed to me, who knew his prowess, to render him the
more formidable.

“Do you hear, you Bavarian dog?” the infuriated soldier cried in his
ear as he brandished his sword. “I say I will cut off your head!”

The Englishman yawned a little, and then said in a tone of such
humility as to render it surprising, “May I ask your excellency to
accord English Dickon a brief space for his prayers? His was a nice
mother, she had a nice son, and her last charge to her first-born was,
‘Richard, when Heaven requires you, let a life of integrity be your
passport to the Holy Stool.’”

The soldiers seemed inclined to accept this whimsical mildness for
pusillanimity.

“By the devil’s life,” said the soldier, whose valour appeared to wax
higher before the Englishman’s forbearance, “you shall have a minute
for your orisons, you red-coloured, beer-swilling snuffler!”

“No more?” said the English giant. “Consider it, your excellency--a
minute is a little space. There will be no time for a priest. And then
the Host ought to be sent for.”

“Not an instant more, by the devil’s life!” cried the furious soldier.

“Alack!” said Sir Richard Pendragon, “I would have liked the clergy,
but I suppose it is not to be. Yet it will be a sad meeting in heaven,
all the same, with my sainted dam.”

The soldier cast a reflection upon the mother of Sir Richard Pendragon
that no man of my nation would have found possible to overpass. Instead
of heeding it, however, the English giant called to the innkeeper,
“Landlord, I would have you bring me a cup of sherris in order that I
may perish gracefully.”

Here it was, however, before the landlord was able to obey this order,
or the Castilian bravo had the opportunity to lay his own design into
execution, that the affair took a new turn. At this moment another
soldier, whose moustachios were fiercer and whose plume was longer than
those of any of his comrades, and who, to judge by the deference that
was paid him, appeared to be their captain, entered the inn. Swearing
an oath, he strode through the angry group, and in the fashion of one
who was preparing to devour us, approached us three who sat peacefully
about the hearth.

“What is this?” he cried. “Who are these that dare to wear cloaks and
sit by the fire in the presence of the King’s soldiers?”

“These are Bavarian brawlers, gracious Don Nicholas,” said a greybeard
among the soldiers.

“Bavarian brawlers, are they?” said Don Nicholas. “By Our Lady, they
shall be taken to the King’s dungeon. At them and seize them and take
them away!”

At this command the soldiers made as if they would lay hands upon us;
and as the Count of Nullepart seemed little inclined to deny them, and
Sir Richard Pendragon appeared to have grown so sleepy that he could
hardly keep awake, I took upon myself to declare our true quality.

As became a Spanish gentleman, I rose from my seat and offered it to
Don Nicholas. Also I uncloaked myself as I said, “You err in this, most
worshipful. I am a hidalgo of Spain, the Count of Nullepart is a member
of the French nobility, and Sir Richard Pendragon, although the fruit
of a barbarous nation, is spoken of as one of its chief ornaments.”

“So I am, good Don,” said the English giant, opening his eyes
somnolently as I mentioned his name; “they think of me well in London.”

Yet here it was that our passages took a turn which was both unexpected
and to be regretted. For no sooner had Don Nicholas heard the name
of Sir Richard Pendragon, and had learned the barbarous sound of his
voice, then he gave back a pace and cried out joyfully, “Body of Jesus!
this is the captain of the English thieves who robbed the church of San
Maria, and who broke out of his Majesty’s prison the night before his
execution.”

“Surely it is!” cried the grey-bearded soldier. “It is that infamous
foreign robber.”

Sir Richard Pendragon rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and into them
there entered a kind of furtive humour.

“Rob a church!” he said, with that softness that was so surprising.
“English Richard rob a church! Why, you poor, good souls, I was bred
in a monastery; I have a kinsman a bishop; ’a was the brother of my
sainted mother.”

“Yes, it is the English robber,” said Don Nicholas grimly. “The sight
of him will be very pleasant to the King’s majesty. He hath placed a
thousand crowns on his head.”

“Yon fellow might well want to cut it off,” said Sir Richard Pendragon.
“But rob a church--I with my integrity! Oh, these poor Spaniards! I
fear their minds are as disorderly as those of the poor Dutch.”

Yet now our situation was undoubtedly grave. The odds were ten against
three. I cannot answer for the Count of Nullepart, but to judge by
his air, his feelings in this pass must have been similar to my own.
Whatever were the crimes of our companion, for the time being at least
our fortunes were his. The King of Castile was our common enemy. We
must defend our mistress’s good servant, even if it cost us our lives.

Howbeit, he, confronted with such grave peril, still seemed not to heed
the instancy of his case.

“Rob a church!” he said in that soft voice that was so sinister. “I,
with the blood of kings under my coat; I, the veritable son of a prince
of a true propinquity--I despoil the good clergy! Why, you poor souls,
you must have been drinking sherris.”

“Have done, you rogue with a red face!” said Don Nicholas. “Bring a
cord, one of you, that we may bind his hands.”

“A cord, you good, honest Spaniard!” said the English giant. “Wherefore
a cord, when gentle English Dickon would not outface a small she child
in the arms of its kind female nurse?”

In despite of Sir Richard Pendragon’s innocent protestations one of the
soldiers produced a long stout cord, and under the direction of Don
Nicholas prepared somewhat warily to pinion the hands of the English
giant.

“Nay, come forward, good soldier,” said Sir Richard Pendragon,
stretching forth his wrists and crossing one over the other. “And if it
is your humour, coil the rude cord around poor Dick. Come forward, I
pray you; I have no defence but my virtue.”

Upon this invitation, which was given with a courtesy which I, at
least, had never heard before upon the lips of this formidable
foreigner, the soldier stepped forward with his noose. And it was to be
observed he was none other than that swaggerer who a few moments since
had promised to cut off the head of the Englishman.

“This is a good honest cord,” said Sir Richard Pendragon as it was
about to be slipped upon him, “and you, honest Spaniard, appear to be a
good mother’s son.”

And then in a flash, in a flash of incredible quickness, with the same
sleek and courteous smile upon his lips, the English giant had plucked
a dagger from under the folds of his mantle, and had stabbed the
wretched soldier to the heart.



CHAPTER XXII

WE ARE HARD BESET


I CANNOT say what happened next. I only know that the three of us
sprang to our feet fighting for our lives.

I had never seen blood drawn before in a quarrel; but now I had no time
to speculate upon this ghastly proceeding. The sharp and cruel noise of
steel was in our ears; the hot breaths of our foes were on our cheeks;
and horrid cries, writhing forms, and devilish faces were all about us.

So soon as the man with the cord was stretched on the floor, the first
thing of which I was truly sensible was that Don Nicholas himself was
down. He fell almost in the same instant and by the same hand, and he
lay horridly in a huddle, with the blood staining him in his mortal
anguish.

The Englishman was now on his feet with his back to the wall and his
sword free. All the soldiers in the venta, and they were not less than
eight in number, infuriated by the sudden murder of their captain and
their comrade, were springing upon him like a pack of wolves.

Howbeit, it was a wonderful blade that the Englishman bore. He resisted
their first onset so ably that they fell back before him. Only the most
superb address could have saved him, but this was at his command. Yet
no sooner had they been repulsed than they came at him again. They
began to press him severely, but in the moment of his need the Count of
Nullepart made an intervention. Knocking up one of their swords with
his own blade, he drew the man off and engaged him brilliantly.

I followed the Count of Nullepart’s example, engaging a second fellow.
And although my skill was as nothing beside that of my two comrades, my
attack grew the more furious that it might supply its lack of science.
At least, I know that hardly had I engaged the man I had chosen--a
fellow who had crept forward to take the Englishman underneath while he
dealt with the others--than I felt my father’s good blade pass right
through his body, and he sank with a groan to his knees.

Scarce had I freed the weapon than I heard the voice of Sir Richard
Pendragon in my ears.

“Forth, good Don! Do you creep through to the horses and get them into
the street.”

Without waiting to look what happened further to my friends--for I knew
their address to be great, and the only hope of saving their lives lay
in getting out the horses at once--I contrived to force my way through
the press of our foes, who paid me little attention. Running across
the open passage-way to where our beasts were stabled, I proceeded to
saddle them in the greatest haste. And this was not rendered less by
the knowledge that the landlord had run out into the street and was
bawling lustily. All too soon we should have half the city upon us.

Thirty yards away, within the precincts of the inn kitchen, the steel
rang ever louder and louder, and it seemed that I should never be able
to get the saddles and bridles on to the three horses. But at last they
were furnished, and one by one I led them through the narrow doorway
into the street.

Hardly had I done this than I encountered on the threshold of the
tavern a number of citizens and soldiers whom the cries of the landlord
had summoned.

“The robber is within,” I had the presence of mind to gasp breathlessly.

Thereupon they pressed forward into the inn without heeding the three
horses.

Just as I was about to follow on their heels to see what aid I could
render to my friends, the English giant fought his way out of the
reeking interior. His chest was heaving, his sword was broken, and his
face was dripping with blood and sweat. His great red eyes were as
luminous as those of a tiger.

“The Count of Nullepart!” I cried. “Where is the Count of Nullepart?”

Before the Englishman could answer my question, the nimble form of
our comrade had also emerged from the interior, which now was like a
shambles. He too was covered in blood, and his face was as pale as a
corpse.

It was an instant’s work to spring into our saddles. Yet quick as we
were, we were hardly sharp enough. Soldiers and citizens were already
thronging around us; their outstretched hands were striving to pull us
down; and a most perilous hue and cry was arising in the streets of the
city.

“In the name of the Virgin, let them not escape!” was a cry that was
raised all about us.

For the moment, happily for us, none of this mob was mounted. Putting
our horses at the press we clove a way through, still dealing fierce
blows and receiving them; and at last, getting clear, we set off
pell-mell down the street and through the narrow purlieus of the
city. Under the cover of the darkness it began to seem that we had a
reasonable prospect of escape.

Our fleet horses, a little recovered from the fatigues of the day,
began to outstrip our pursuers; yet our danger was still very real,
since in the labyrinth of ways and byways we were likely to be
entrapped.

By a stroke of fortune Sir Richard Pendragon and the Count of Nullepart
were familiar with Madrid, and were able to point a fair course to the
southern gate of the city. However, no sooner had we come before it,
with our pursuers well in the rear, than we had to encounter a new
peril. The gate was locked for the night.

The urgency of our cries, and loud bawling of “In the name of the
King!” drew the porter out of his hut. In one hand he bore a lanthorn
and in the other a key, which was strapped to his girdle. He was an old
man, very querulous and apparently very sleepy.

“Who are ye that ride forth at this hour?” he demanded. “Where are your
passports signed by the constable of the city?”

“It is here, father,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, leaning a little
forward from the saddle and knocking the old man senseless with the
hilt of his sword.

Leaping down from his horse, Sir Richard tore the key from the porter’s
girdle. In the next instant he had thrown back the gate, and our horses
were through. Yet brief as this delay was, it was almost too much.
Hardly had we crossed the boundary of the city ere the hue and cry was
upon us.

The Englishman, however, was in nowise daunted by the necessity for
haste. With that self mastery and high instinct for action which a
little time before had saved his life, he pulled the gate after him,
and turned the key almost against the very noses of our pursuers.

While some of them screamed oaths and shouted curses and administered
to the senseless porter, and others attacked the staunch iron barrier,
we rode into the darkness at a pace which was calculated not unduly to
distress our already fatigued horses.

When we had made a league and the shouts of our foes were no longer in
our ears, my excitement, which I confess had been very great, abated
sufficiently to enable me to remember that my friends had suffered
scathe in the inn. To my inquiry they returned the answer that they
had never felt happier in any situation; and further, I received their
commendation upon the part I had played.

“My young companion,” said the Englishman, “I make you my service.
Your behaviour was so worthy in the hour of trial that I regret that I
abused your nation. I never ask to see a young springald bear his sword
better; and as for your five wits, they are those of a good boy. You
have pleased me well, good Don; and I allow that your mother was an
excellent person. And the same applies to your father.”

A speech of this flattering civility, which I was happy to feel was my
desert, gave me such pleasure that for the time I forgot that he who
made it was undoubtedly a desperate and bloodthirsty character. Yet, in
serving one to whom I was under the pledge of loyalty, I was committed
to the interest of this bold and ruthless foreigner; besides the events
of the night had given me a taste for the life of a soldier, which had
bred a high intoxication in my veins. And the effect of this delightful
madness was singular. At this hour I seemed to care little for the
righteousness of my cause or the integrity of my company. My soul was
possessed with the knowledge that I had killed a fellow creature in an
open quarrel; and now, riding in the summer darkness, it asked no more
than the opportunity to kill another.

The Count of Nullepart also paid me a very civil compliment in his
charming manner. But, as we rode knee to knee through the darkness, a
strange silence fell upon our delightful friend. The path grew broken
and uncertain, so that we were thrown about in our saddles; and the gay
wisdom and laughter of our companion, which had done so much to lighten
our journey, was no longer to be heard. Never had I known this gentle
maker of harmony addict himself to so much silence.

And then, quite suddenly, without sign or word or exclamation, the
Count of Nullepart fell from his horse.



CHAPTER XXIII

OF THE COUNT OF NULLEPART’S EXTREMITY


IT was with the deepest concern, for we had both come to love our
companion, that Sir Richard Pendragon and I dismounted and lifted up
the prostrate form in our arms. In the heavy darkness of the night,
which was rendered more extreme by the shadows from the overhanging
trees, we were at first at a loss to know what was the cause of this
calamity.

Our fear that the Count of Nullepart was dead was dispelled
immediately. He could be heard to breathe. Passing our hands over him,
however, we discovered that his doublet was soaked with blood. Yet for
some time we were not able to discover the seat of what was evidently a
grievous injury. Indeed it was not until we had revived our senseless
comrade by bathing his temples in some stagnant water that we found in
a rut in the middle of the road that we were able to learn its position
and extent. It was by this providential means that our unlucky friend
was himself enabled to inform us.

“It is nothing,” he said. “It is not more than a scratch. I pray you,
leave me, my friends, to my own devices, for upon my soul you have not
a moment to spare. By now a mounted company is surely upon our heels.”

“Mounseer,” said the Englishman, with a delicacy of address of which I
should not have deemed him to be capable, “I care not if all Spain is
out and mounted on the strain Bucephalus. Do you suppose that one who
hath the blood of kings under his doublet will leave you to the wolves.
Where is your hurt, good Mounseer? We will look to it, if it please
you.”

In spite of the courage of our friend, who protested that his hurt was
nothing and that time was much, we kept to our determination to find
his injury. He then allowed that he had had several inches of steel in
his ribs. “But it is nought, my friends; the merest trifle I assure
you,” he said as he staggered towards his horse.

All the same it was clear to us that if the Count of Nullepart was to
continue his journey, means must be found to staunch the bleeding of
his wound. Unhappily, we were without the implements of surgery; and
the wound was so deep that our kerchiefs knotted together and coiled
about it could not cope with the flow of blood.

In this pass the Englishman did a strange thing. It furnished a
further proof of that genius for contrivance which above all things
distinguished this strange individual. Without more ado he proceeded
to disrobe himself. Stripping off his shirt, and all naked to the
waist as he was, he tore that garment into ribands and wove the pieces
tightly round the Count of Nullepart’s body. And so powerful was this
ready-witted surgery that the wounded man vowed laughingly that the
Englishman had checked not only his bleeding but the source of life
itself.

Hardly had this skilful operation been performed, and before Sir
Richard Pendragon could reinvest his skin with that doublet which was
wont to enclose the blood of kings, when our ears were assailed with
the sounds of armed men approaching rapidly in the darkness.

“Here comes John Castilian’s wasp nest about our ears,” said the
Englishman grimly.

It was not a season for speech, however. Lifting the Count of Nullepart
into his saddle, we tarried not an instant, but led our horses off
the track. Rising sheer on either side of the road loomed the face of
a steep mountain. It seemed well-nigh impossible to traverse it; and
we had gone but a short distance along this difficult ascent when we
stayed our progress to listen to our enemies, who passed noisily by us
in the road below. To judge by the jingling of swords and bridles and
the beating of hoofs against the stones, they formed a considerable
mounted company. And I think had they not been riding carelessly they
must have seen us, so short a distance were we from them.

When they had passed we continued to ascend the mountain. Yet this
adventure was fraught with great peril. There was no road to go upon;
trees and rough boulders were strewn everywhere; and the higher we
rose the more imminent it became that we should step over some steep
precipice that lay concealed in the darkness. Sir Richard Pendragon
made use of his scabbard in the same way that a blind man uses his
staff. He tried every yard of the ground before his feet passed over
it, for, as he said, “he desired not to fall into the Devil’s Kitchen,
lest he met man’s Evil Adversary who was bound to perplex a good
Catholic.”

The Englishman being spared this calamity, owing to the exercise of
much skill, we came at last to a large wood. Very grateful we felt for
its promise of protection, yet its precincts looked so black that Sir
Richard Pendragon said it would not surprise him at all if a wicked
ogre dwelt in it, or a fell magician, or even a wizard or a salamander.
In spite of these forebodings which he declared to be the natural fruit
of a brain that had been nourished upon the Roman authors in its youth,
we felt ourselves to be quite safe from detection among the thick trees
and with the dark night also to cover us. We led our weary horses
within the wood and tied them up. Then, seeking out a dry and sheltered
place, we spread our own weariness upon the green earth and folded our
cloaks about us.

All through these long yet sweet hours of utter darkness my two
comrades continued to sleep--the Count of Nullepart lightly and
fitfully, Sir Richard Pendragon with the perseverance of the fabled
ones of Ephesus. And as thus I was stretched upon what I was fain
to consider my first battlefield, with this fragrant redress never
farther from my eyes, I was minded to resummon the image of the
night’s wild business; and with that natural instinct for the foibles
of my fellowmen--a habit of philosophy which I can only ascribe to my
mother--I proceeded to ruminate on the nature of those who lay by my
side.

I think I may say these reflections were not unpleasant. My companions
were strange, diverse, and foreign men; and one of them was certainly
barbarous in the comparison with the gentlemen of our peninsula,
who in matters of high civility are allowed to be the first in the
world. Yet I found that I had already come to entertain towards them a
sentiment of liberal fellowship, nay, even of love. The dangers we had
already shared together, and perhaps the thought of those which were
to come, which made my heart beat high as I lay upon the bare ground,
caused me to forget their nation and their idiosyncrasy, and to cherish
a feeling towards them which the gentle reader will hardly think
consistent in one who boasted the sangre azul of Spain.

At the first sign of dawn Sir Richard Pendragon awoke, rose from his
couch, and shook himself like a dog. He then announced that we must get
upon our road at once, since our proximity to the King of Castile’s
chief city was highly perilous. It was with a tender concern that we
awakened the poor Count of Nullepart, who was still dozing fitfully.
His face looked ashen pale in the grey morning light, but he gave us
his assurance that he was fit to take the saddle.

Whether this was the case or not, and his looks denied him, the Count
of Nullepart was a brave man, and he disdained our aid in mounting his
horse. But never was a path so difficult and painful as the one we took
that day. We dared not descend the mountain to the public road, lest we
fell in with our foes, but were compelled to move by stealth across an
almost insurmountable country, like a company of robbers skulking from
lawful men.

In the soreness of our travail, which was such that on many occasions
we had to dismount and lead our horses along places they could not
take alone, we needed much resolution to support the pains of our
journey. I know not what were the sufferings of our stricken companion,
yet not a word of complaint escaped from his lips. As for Sir Richard
Pendragon, his demeanour had become that of a brave man and a
redoubtable leader.

The face of peril had changed him from an insolent trifler who was
prone to insult a noble country to one who had a natural love of
leadership, and who took cognisance of all the haps to which we were
like to be exposed. His prescience was indeed very great. Doubtless
it was the fruit of a long acquaintance with the arduous business of
war. And although he appeared to have been bred in the love of danger,
and admitted now and again that “he had a passion to cut a throat,” he
had also the highest respect for his own person, and further he had a
faithful servant’s regard for the errand he had embraced.

The sun was high at noon ere our wanderings brought us to a hamlet in
which we were able to find food and rest. It was situated in a remote
part, where our enemies were not likely to trouble us. Here it was that
the Count of Nullepart had his wound dressed and artfully bandaged, and
Sir Richard Pendragon procured a shirt greatly too small for him. In
this place we lay in shelter for two hours from the great heat of the
day.

When towards evening we resumed our road in some refreshment of mind
and body, we knew it better and embraced it with more certainty.
Fortune attending on us, we came securely, a little after night had
fallen, to a wayside inn. Here a rude but welcome hospitality was
offered to us, and thus we lay in succour till the dawn.

During the next day the Count of Nullepart grew wonderfully better.
Indeed, so favourable was his state that he celebrated it upon
the flageolet as we halted in the shade at noon. Thus far, at the
instance of a wonderful vigilance, in which Sir Richard Pendragon was
accomplished beyond any person I have ever met, and by the further kind
continuance of fortune, we were spared so much as even a trace of our
enemies; and although our road was difficult and our progress slow,
we began to make a sensible incursion upon the country of the King of
Castile.

On the next night of our adventures we lay in a great wood. We kindled
a fire of faggots and cooked a turkey which Sir Richard had conveyed
from a farmyard. It made excellent eating, for hunger is of all sauces
the most delectable; yet I must confess to you, reader, I had at first
set my mind against it, being determined not to partake of that which
had not been come by in a lawful manner. But my scruples were not proof
against a dreadfully sharpened appetite, which was also fortified by
the Englishman’s plausibility.

“Why, you poor soul,” said he, “we get nothing in this world save by
enforcement. The farmer enforces the good turkey; one who is virtuous
enforces the good farmer; and then comes hunger to enforce the one who
is virtuous. And I ask you, my young son of the Spains, who is it,
bethink, that enforces this veritable passion of hunger. Why, to be
sure, it is the heavenly bodies who enforce the passion of hunger. And
who is it that enforces the heavenly bodies? Why, you poor soul, to be
sure it is Him who enforces the whole of the world.”

I was fain to admit this was excellent philosophy, and the Count of
Nullepart also admired it; and my belly being exceeding empty, and
my resolve being weakened by this notorious subtlety, which you will
believe had great weight with a natural philosopher such as myself, I
was fain to eat of the turkey. And I cannot remember ever having eaten
of anything more choice.

It has been my hap since those distant days in my youth to sit with men
of all sorts, in many countries, in many varieties of circumstance;
but never with two more engaging in their diversity than these with
whom my lot was cast upon this enterprise. The Count of Nullepart was
so gay and graceful in address, so fortunate in his appearance, so
debonair--to use a foreign idiom I have picked up in my travels; while
Sir Richard Pendragon was all that his comrade was not, with a humour
so sinister that it was hard to know how to receive it, one withal
of barbarous ideas and a loose morality according to the tenets of a
caballero of Spain. And yet beyond all things, and in whatever his
merit might consist, this Englishman had a peculiar genius. He was a
natural leader. For in every sort of action he discovered himself to
be as wise as he was formidable; as full of knowledge as he was of
sagacity; as little in ruth as he was bold in emprise.

Again I must confess to you, reader, that being the son of a Spanish
gentleman, it was my nature to despise one such as he; yet I must
declare to you, as I cherish an honourable name, that whenever this
sinister foreigner threw me a compliment, which he did now and again, I
was for all the world like a dog that has received a bone.

I have never been able to account for this behaviour. There can be no
doubt about my father’s pedigree, and any Asturian will inform you that
the family of my mother is beyond cavil. Yet in all our subsequent
passages with this formidable islander, who in some ways was little
better than one of the wicked, as there was too good a reason to know,
in whatever path he walked the Count of Nullepart and myself were happy
to attend him.

After our meal, as we lay under the trees in the wood, I conversed with
the worthy Count of Nullepart upon this subject. Sir Richard Pendragon
had already fallen asleep. It was his boast that he could command this
solace at any moment of the day or night.

“It is the power of the mind, my dear Don Miguel,” said the Count of
Nullepart. “This ingenious and subtle adventurer has a power of mind
that a god might envy.”

“But, worshipful Count of Nullepart,” I protested, “his manners are
ungentle; he insults a noble country; he traduces an ancient name; he
takes life without remorse and with a most practised hand. He reveres
not the truth, and he is over-familiar with the All-Wise Creator.
Wherefore, Sir Count, if his mind is as you say, doth he not walk
abroad with decency?”

“My dear Don Miguel,” said the Count of Nullepart, “it is because of
his natural force. Does the wind walk abroad with decency? It can be
soft and courteous, yet more often it is rude and violent. But whatever
its humour, all of us, Spanish hidalgo or French rapscallion, must obey
its whims. It is the same with this Englishman. He knows no law save
his natural puissance; and you and I, my dear, have not the power to do
other than respect it.”

Upon this the Count of Nullepart drew his cloak about him and went to
sleep. I was not satisfied in the least as to the ground on which I
went, but being too fatigued to confer further with my thoughts I was
fain also to do the same.

In the course of a long week’s journey we had quitted the dominion
of the King of Castile, and the perils of the road were diminished
sensibly. Thenceforward we took again to the public ways, and were glad
indeed of the additional comfort and security.

I was now permitted to observe more clearly the beauties of nature,
for all the fair provinces through which we passed were strange to
me. And this I did the more particularly, I think, since at the many
reflections I was moved to make upon the sweet qualities of the hills
and valley and the streams and meadows by which we passed, Sir Richard
Pendragon took upon himself to deride continually that which he called
“my peninsularity”; and though admitting “that the scene was not amiss,
considering that it was set in a dry climate, it compared very poorly
with the honest woodland pastures in the vicinity of Wapping, which was
near to London City.”

When we drew near to that most noble chain of mountains which in these
parts is called the Pyrenees, and whose serious magnificence, which
transcended all that my mind had ever conceived of our most wonderful
country, was spread before my gaze, I turned to my foreign companion
with a sense of triumph that I could not restrain.

“I will allow your country to be a fair place, worshipful Sir Richard
Pendragon,” I said, “but if it has aught to compare with these tall
mountains, it must be heaven itself, which is the home of the good God.”

“Why, you poor mad soul!” said he contemptuously, “you speak of these
as mountains--mountains, you soft goose? Why, they would speak of them
as dunghills if they were near to London.”

This insolent disdain of my country--for how else could a true son of
Iberia regard such words?--gave me such an anger against the Englishman
that I declined to speak with him for some time. No sooner did he
discover the cause of my silence than his language grew still more
licentious. “Pyrenees forsooth!” he exclaimed. “Mountains, ecod! Does
the poor mad soul think I was born at Dublin?”

Thereupon I withdrew my horse fifty paces to the rear, for I was
determined that I would not remain in the company of one who wounded
my country. Then it was that his demeanour changed. He made quite a
handsome apology to Spain, withal accompanied by such a whimsical
pleasantness that I was fain to forgive him, although exacting the
condition that whatever was the higher merit of his native England,
which I could not for a moment accept, he would make abatement of it in
my presence.

Upon this Sir Richard Pendragon bent forward and whispered in the
ear of the extraordinary quadruped he was bestriding, for he had the
habit of talking continually to this most strange beast. “’Tis a hard
condition, is it not, good Melanto, for you and me that have such
opinions of our own? But this youthful Don is a mad fellow, is he
not, Melanto? Yet with the permission of Heaven you and I will always
respect the whims of madness.”

Among other things, as became my elevation of mind, I had wondered
many times why this singular quadruped--horse I will not call
it--should bear such a remarkable name. It appeared to be the height of
idiosyncrasy to bestow upon a four-footed beast a name which could only
have been familiar to scholars. And so, to appease my curiosity and to
change the unlucky tenor of our discourse, I said, “Wherefore, kind and
gracious Sir Richard Pendragon, do you call your four-footed quadruped
by the name of Melanto? Is not the name passing odd for a shaggy animal
with a long tail?”

“Well, my young companion, if you must know the reason,” said the
Englishman, “he owes the name of Melanto to his preoccupation with the
things of the mind.”

“Is that the name of one of the learned?” I asked dubiously, because I
had to confess that to myself it was wholly dark.

“Melanto,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, “was the name of a learned
Mongolian who founded a religious order. First a sea captain, he became
an astrologer in his later years, in order that he might confer with
the stars in their courses and the works of nature.”

“I was ignorant of these facts,” I owned humbly, for Sir Richard seemed
to imply that an enlightened mind should be familiar with these things,
“but doubtless they are well acquainted with them at Salamanca.”

“Doubtless they are, good Don,” said Sir Richard Pendragon gravely.

At this moment the Count of Nullepart was so shaken with laughter that
I feared he might fall from his horse. Upon what pretext he indulged
it I do not know; but as he was much addicted to mirth which seemed
without any true cause to call it forth, I was fain to ascribe it to
his French nationality, which, as all the world knows, has too little
regard for the light of reason.

Perhaps we had been some twenty days on our journey by the time we came
into France. As we approached that curious country, which in nowise
resembles that of Spain, I inquired of my companions wherein this land
differed especially from that of its surpassing neighbour.

“It is the inhabitants, good Don, that make the difference,” Sir
Richard Pendragon informed me. “They grimace like monkeys and are
addicted to the practice of eating frogs.”

“But, good Sir Richard Pendragon,” said I, “the worshipful Count of
Nullepart is of this nation, and upon my life I have never observed him
grimace like a monkey, and I will answer for it that his table manners
are so delicate that he would eschew the practice of eating frogs.”

“My dear Don Miguel,” said the Count of Nullepart, smiling, “upon what
pretext do you associate one so inconsiderable as myself with that
meritorious nation, the French?”

“Surely, Sir Count, your name is your guarantee,” I rejoined. “At least
I have always understood it to be so.”

“In that particular you are doubtless correct, my dear Don Miguel,”
said the Count of Nullepart, “at least that is when I travel in Spain.
But now we are over the French border I rejoice in a better.”

I inquired his further title with some surprise.

“Upon the curious soil of France,” said the Count of Nullepart, “I go
by the name of Señor Fulano or Mr. What-you-will.”

“I protest, Sir Count, I do not understand this matter at all.”

“I pray you seek not to do so, my dear,” said the Count of Nullepart.
“It is only that I choose to have it so as becomes a free born citizen
of the world.”

I could get no further enlightenment from the Count of Nullepart,
and no sooner had we crossed into France than my mystification was
increased. At the inn at the first town we came to, of which I forget
the name, the Count of Nullepart declared solemnly that we must speak
for him on all occasions, for by a singular mischance he had entirely
mislaid the use of the French tongue. And, further, he assured us
that this grave calamity had had the unprecedented consequence of
stimulating in the highest degree the growth of his chin hairs. Indeed,
this growth was so remarkable that even upon our first day in France
he had acquired quite a large beard.

Instead, then, of the gay, sprightly, and handsome Count of Nullepart,
an admired member of the French nobility, with whom we had come upon
our journey from Toledo, we had for a companion upon French soil
one Señor Fulano, a staid, sober, and bearded citizen, who claimed
cousinship with the burgomaster of the town of El Dorado, a place of
which I had never heard the name.

“I protest, Sir Count,” said I, “there is no such place as El Dorado in
the length and breadth of our peninsula.”

This caused the Count of Nullepart and Sir Richard Pendragon a
vast amount of mirth, and I heard the latter declare that even his
preposterous horse Melanto was chuckling furiously.

“The truth is, good Master Fulano,” said the Englishman, “these
youthful Spaniardoes have so little fantasy as a trussed fowl.
Personally I ascribe their heaviness to the dryness of their climate
and the rough quality of their wines.”

“That is the root of the matter, doubtless,” said the Count of
Nullepart in a most execrable and rustic Spanish which you would think
a gentleman would be careful not to use.

Be this as it may, from the moment we crossed into France, and during
the whole time of our sojourn in that unprofitable country, the Count
of Nullepart, or Señor Fulano as he would have us call him, had no
French at all. Whenever he had occasion to speak he used Spanish of a
most rustic and barbarous sort.

Much as I disliked the country of France, I disliked the people, their
cookery, their manner of speaking, and their extremely foreign ways
even more. As I had small skill in their language, and the Count of
Nullepart had so mysteriously laid aside that which he could claim,
we had greatly to depend upon Sir Richard Pendragon’s knowledge and
adroitness for the least of our necessities. And to allow a due to the
devil--as my countrymen express it--it must be said that the well-being
of three travellers in a foreign country could not have been in
worthier hands.

Sir Richard Pendragon’s use of the French tongue, which I doubt not to
polite ears must have been as unseemly as his use of Castilian, was
so vigorous and his eyes rolled so freely, the name of God and his
Evil Adversary were so constantly upon his lips, and his hand was so
seldom off the hilt of his sword, that the French innkeepers vied with
each other in doing his behests, almost before he had been put to the
inconvenience of making them known. I cannot remember--although on
several occasions he has informed me of the number--how many temporal
kings of whom Sir Richard Pendragon claimed kinship and acquaintancy,
but at least he wore their manners in such wise as to know how to be
obeyed. Full many an innkeeper have I seen turn pale at his utterance
of the word “Sapristi!” And so surprised were some of them to find
themselves alive by the time he quitted their houses that they forgot
to ask him for the score, or perhaps it was that they feared to do so.
At least I know that in several instances they must have gone unpaid
had not the Señor Fulano thrown them a silver dollar.

I had no favourable impression of this country of France. I suppose it
is a pleasant country; at least I have met those who allow it to be so;
but to the eye of a true Iberian it seemed to lack colour, politeness,
and originality. Besides, as soon as we came to the first place out
of Spain, of which, as I have said, I forget the name, it came on to
rain; and during the whole time we were in this unfortunate land, which
could not have been less than thirty days, it continued to do so. I
know not whether the inhabitants of the country subsist upon frogs, as
was said of them by Sir Richard Pendragon, but if he spoke truly it was
doubtless in obedience to the dispensation of the good God, for their
favourite food was continually to be seen swimming in the pools that
lay in the middle of their roads.

I suppose it was about the thirty-sixth day of our long and arduous
journey that we came into Paris. It was nightfall when we reached the
capital of madam’s nephew, the famous King Louis. It had been raining
all that day, and the day before that, and it was still raining, and
we were covered with mud as high as our cheek bones. Our cloaks were
soaked through and through and were running over with water. Further we
were hungry and fatigued and in a desperately evil humour; yet instead
of entering the first inn we came to within the precincts of the city,
Sir Richard Pendragon would have us repair to the auberge of the
Compas d’Or, hard by to what is called the Sorbonne, which Sir Richard
pronounced “Sawbones” and said was the same that in London was called
the College of Surgeons.

This auberge of the Compas d’Or--I have no curiosity to learn what
the name would mean in pure Castilian, but they would tell you perhaps
at Salamanca--was, according to Sir Richard Pendragon, the best inn
at Paris. Indeed, it was a trait I had observed in him that no matter
how hungry or weary or out of humour he might be, whenever he came to
a town or city where there was more than one inn from which to choose,
and some places through which we passed kept quite a number, he would
select the one which had the best food, the best wine, the best corner
in which to sup, and the best chamber in which to sleep. It was due, he
said, to the blood of kings that its board and bed should be princely.

Thus when we came in this pouring wet night to the auberge of the
Compas d’Or, and we had seen to it that our honest horses were cared
for worthily by the ostlers of this great inn, we entered a large and
comfortable room. And no sooner had we made our appearance in it than
Sir Richard Pendragon’s mode of address occasioned some surprise to the
company we found there.



CHAPTER XXIV

OF SIR RICHARD PENDRAGON’S PASSAGES WITH THE GENTLEMEN OF THE KING’S
GUARD


THE large room was half full of a distinguished company. Many of the
persons there assembled wore a handsome and imposing livery; others
wore an equally handsome and imposing garb of peace. These gentlemen
were engaged in playing at the cards and throwing the dice, and all
were men whose air was lofty. Immediately we had come into their midst,
the proprietor of the auberge--I can see him at this moment, a little
round fellow with a great belly--came forward half nervously, half
uncivilly, crying that we must withdraw at once, as the apartment was
reserved for the gentlemen and the friends of the gentlemen of the
King’s guard.

“Oho!” said Sir Richard Pendragon, in a voice that rose like a trumpet,
“these honest Parley-voos will not look askance on the hereditary
overlord of the Russ, his court chamberlain, and his second minister.
Do you assure them, good Beer-barrel, with our compliments, that they
will find us pleasant good fellows when we have dried our doublets; but
for this present we are cold and fatigued and most infernally hungry.”

I know not whether the manner of this address, the matter of which was
communicated to me at my own request by the Count of Nullepart, was an
offence to the proud feelings of the gentlemen of the King’s Guard,
but one and all turned glances upon us of the greatest amazement and
austerity.

Sir Richard Pendragon, however, paid them not the slightest heed.
Observing a vacant chair beside a small table, he flung himself
into it, and ordered the keeper of the auberge, in the voice he was
accustomed to use to persons of that condition, to bring us wine and
victual.

“But, sir,” said the innkeeper--I am indebted to my worshipful friend
the Count of Nullepart for all that follows--“you and your friends
cannot remain in this apartment. As I have informed you already, it is
only for the use of the gentlemen and the friends of the gentlemen of
the King’s Guard.”

“Well, you French monkey,” said the English giant, rolling his eyes
fearfully, “you may choose for yourself. Either you obey me this
minute, or, as I am a Christian gentleman, I will cut off your ears.”

Swearing an oath that blenched the cheek of the innkeeper, and scowling
with the ferocity that never failed to cow all of this kidney, Sir
Richard Pendragon drew his sword with a flourish, made a magnificent
pass at the air, and stuck it at one pace from him in the wooden floor.

I think I have never seen more amazement in the human countenance than
this action excited in all who witnessed it. At first the onlookers
seemed unwilling to believe their eyes. That any human being should
enter their presence and thus bear himself was a thing they could not
grasp. And then, when they came to realize that the Englishman regarded
their presence no more than he did that of the innkeeper, a kind of
pitying contempt came into their faces.

Nevertheless, some little time went by ere they addressed Sir Richard
Pendragon. Conversing together in low tones, they appeared to wait upon
the good pleasure of one among them. Then they called the landlord, who
stood awaiting their commands, and gave him certain instructions.

Upon receipt of these the keeper of the auberge approached Sir Richard
Pendragon, yet with a good deal of wariness, and said, “Monsieur, I am
instructed by the gentlemen of the King’s Guard to inform you that,
whoever you may be, your behaviour is intolerable. But as you and your
companions are clearly of a foreign nation, they are loth to admonish
you. Yet I am to inform you that if you do not immediately put up your
sword and withdraw from this apartment, you will compel them to visit
you according to your merit.”

Now, although the keeper of the auberge, having both right and might
at his elbow, had spoken with a well-considered civility which is rare
in his class, and the words that he had been instructed to use were
those of an admirable moderation, which in the circumstances did honour
to his patrons, they were not accepted by Sir Richard Pendragon in a
spirit of forbearance.

“Do you presume to outface a Pendragon, you French dog?” he roared.
“For a pint of sherris I would pull your neck.”

Speaking thus, the Englishman took up a cup half full of the wine that
was near to him, and flung it full at the head of the innkeeper.

In spite, however, of this new affront to their ambassador, the
gentlemen of the King’s Guard showed no disposition to hurry their
measures. Again they conversed among themselves; and then a thin, tall
man, with a visage exceeding melancholy, not, however, in the king’s
livery, yet attired in a dress of sober richness, rose slowly from the
table at which he had been playing at the cards. There was something of
majesty in his movements, and as he approached the Count of Nullepart
and myself with a cold air, his mien was worthy of a cardinal.

“I would speak with you, my friends,” he said in a deep and musical
voice, yet the tone was such as he would have used to his lackeys.

The Count of Nullepart shook his head solemnly, as though he understood
not a word, and said in a rude Spanish, “I have not your language,
Señor Soldado.”

I had to make a similar confession, but, as I hope, in a purer idiom.

“Muy bien,” said this distinguished French gentleman, speaking in a
very tolerable Spanish that put the Count of Nullepart’s to shame and
compared not unfavourably with my own, “Very well, my friends, a word
in your ears. Your conduct is worthy of the highest censure, but the
gentlemen of the King’s Guard are not accustomed to turn their hands
against the canaille. All the same, they pray you to have a care.”

Thus having spoken with a degree of insolent contempt that few could
have equalled, this Frenchman, and I am sure among his own nation he
must have taken rank as a great lord, turned his back upon us with a
high degree of disdain, and proceeded to regard Sir Richard Pendragon.
The English giant met him with a sleepy indifference. Thereupon the
Frenchman lowered his gaze to an amused contempt, and withdrew Sir
Richard Pendragon’s sword from the floor.

After examining this weapon with a care that was only half curious
he gave his shoulders a shrug, after the foreign manner, and then
presented it to the Englishman by the hilt, saying, “Put up your
butter-cutter, Monsieur l’Epicier, and when you return into your
peninsula give an additional alms to the Virgin that you find yourself
with as whole a skin as that with which you went.”

Being addressed in this fashion, an odd change fell upon the
Englishman. As in the affair in the inn at Madrid, a kind of sinister
softness overtook him. Immediately he abated his voice into a modest
and humble accent which was quite unlike his previous immoderation.

“I thank you, good Frenchman, for my poor tuck. It is an ancient arm,
I might say an heirloom; yet once on a day it held the rank of a
sword. At least, in that capacity was it given to an elderly forebear
by Edward the Black Prince, who in his day did some pretty work among
the French. And now, as you say, although it is an old thing, it still
serves to cut butter.”

Thereupon, in the presence of the whole room, which had suspended its
affairs entirely, Sir Richard Pendragon quietly laid the flat part of
the sword against one side of the Frenchman’s cheek and then against
the other.



CHAPTER XXV

OF SIR RICHARD PENDRAGON’S DUELLO WITH THE GALLANT FRENCHMAN


ANY excitement that was likely to arise was checked by the Frenchman’s
action. With a dark and cold smile on his lips, he turned to his
friends and held up a slender white hand that was covered with jewels,
and besought them, almost in a tone of entreaty, to display calmness.

Then with a most courteous apology to all who had suspended their play,
and remarking that it was plaguy unfortunate that he must suspend his
own when the cards had smiled upon him for the first time in a long
season, he ordered the landlord to have all the room’s furniture drawn
close to the wall.

While this was being done, the Count of Nullepart went to the
Englishman and addressed him privily.

“This fellow,” said he, “is the first swordsman in France. He is the
hero of a hundred duellos, and he is quite invincible.”

“Is he so, my dear?” said the English giant in his modest voice, which
seemed to feign alarm. “How pleasant it must be for the poor soul to be
invincible.”

Sir Richard Pendragon turned to me and said in a manner of courtesy I
had seldom heard him use, “Prithee, good Don Miguel, oblige old honest
Dickon by going into the stable yonder and procuring that little
rapier of Ferrara steel, which you will find strapped to the saddle of
the meritorious Melanto, who is now eating his supper of oats like a
good Christian horse.”

In obedience to this request, I went forth to the stable to procure
the rapier of Ferrara steel. Upon returning with it into the room, I
found that a goodly space had been cleared in the centre. Both parties
to the duello were standing therein stripped of their doublets. The
spectators, exceeding a score in number, were seated on settles which
were ranged close to the wall.

It was curious to observe the looks of mingled contempt, pity, and
derision of these persons when I approached the Englishman and handed
to him the Italian rapier. Some of them were unable to repress their
mirth. They laughed out loudly, as though my action was the height of
the ridiculous.

Before I had taken the chair that was offered to me, these adversaries
had crossed their swords. If I live to be an hundred years old I shall
never forget the battle that ensued. At the first shock of steel
against steel it was clear that each recognized in the other a foremost
swordsman of the age.

The knowledge did not induce fury nor any kind of excitement. It
rendered them calmer, more wary, and subtle than they would have been
otherwise. And the gentlemen present, each of whom, as the Count of
Nullepart informed me, was a master of the sword, began soon to realize
that one of their peers had come quite unexpectedly into their midst.

It was not all at once that this was made clear to them. At first
they regarded the contest with smiles that were merely mocking and
incredulous. Naturally it seemed the extreme of presumption that such a
fellow, whose manners and appearance were so barbarous, should venture
to stand up with a delicate and slender Italian weapon before the first
swordsman of the time. But so soon as their true blades had met, the
company began to exchange significant glances one with another, and
in a very little while they realized that this was no tyro who stood
before them.

From the first it was beautiful play. Owing to his stature, it was
necessary that the Englishman should lose something of elegance
in the comparison with his inimitable adversary, but, stroke and
counterstroke, they were perfectly matched.

The spectators inclined to the opinion at first that Monsieur du
Bartas, for that was the name of their champion, the foremost in all
France, was not putting forth the whole of his art; but when presently
they came to perceive how easily his deftest strokes were turned aside,
they began to waver.

It was a long duello, yet it was one of which every phase was
memorable. These two wonderfully accomplished men began to weave a
spell upon their audience; and as their actions grew quicker and the
finer shades of their play declared themselves, the spectators began to
lean forward out of their seats, and with the loud and ringing music of
the steel was mingled “bravas” and all kinds of applause.

As the combat proceeded the excitement grew more intense. The
spectators seemed not to breathe. For the first time in his career
their invincible champion stood in danger. No matter what the cunning
and the incomparable skill of his devices, it began to appear that
unless the unforeseen occurred to save him he went in danger of his
life.

It was then that the buzz of voices and the murmurs of applause grew
hushed, and soon the gay shouts, the sneering smiles, the sarcasm
of their commentary, yielded to a dead silence. The circle of
onlookers craned ever closer to the combatants, yet now not a word was
spoken; and upon the faces of many there was a mingled surprise and
consternation that they sought not to conceal. For the countenance of
the first swordsman in France was growing livid. The sweat had crept
upon his brow. Proud and brave man though he was, he had begun to feel
himself in the grip of a power beyond his own.

As with amazing skill the Englishman parried stroke after stroke, which
were themselves the fine flowers of his adversary’s talent, each one
of which must have sufficed to place one less in genius out of his
life, I overheard a bewildered gentleman of the King’s Guard say to a
companion, “This fellow must be the Devil!”

All at once and quite suddenly there came the sound of bare steel
striking the ground. The celebrated Frenchman, the hero of a hundred
duellos, stood without a weapon before his adversary.

It was a moment I shall never forget. The sympathies of the Count
of Nullepart and myself were of course engaged upon the side of Sir
Richard Pendragon; but as this noble and imperious French gentleman
stood with head upheld and a look of disdain upon his lips to receive
the penalty of his failure, I think, in common with all the other
witnesses of this splendid encounter, the count and I would have been
only too eager to avert it could we have done so.

Yet Monsieur du Bartas looked not for mercy. He was known as one who
neither gave quarter nor expected to receive it. None, therefore,
looked for mercy for him. The Englishman had gained the victory in fair
fight; it was perfectly just that he should enjoy its fruits. Such
an expectation, however, merely shows how imperfect a thing is the
science of reason, and how simple it is to do less than justice even
to our friends. For none could have foreseen, least of all the Count
of Nullepart and myself, that Sir Richard Pendragon, one of a rude and
uncivilized nation, would stoop to pick up a fallen sword and, with a
bow that would have become the most accomplished of courtiers, return
it to his conquered adversary.

It was then that the silence of the gentlemen of the King’s Guard
yielded to expressions of pleasure. They crowded round the victor,
shook him by the hand, paid him most flattering addresses; and nothing
would content these Frenchmen, regaled as they had been by great
generosity and the highest skill, save that the Englishman and also his
companions should remain with them, drink their wine, and partake of
their hospitality.

Indeed, the rest of the evening was the most delectable it could
have been given to any travellers to spend. We were treated with the
most distinguished consideration by those who were not accustomed to
exercise it on a light pretext. Yet it soon became clear that they had
come to regard their guests as mysterious.

The French, as all travellers allow, are people of quick parts; and
while they feasted and flattered us, it was plain to these gentlemen
that we were other than we seemed. With all the courtesy possible,
for even the Englishman could doff his brusque manners when it suited
his humour, we declined to disclose a word of our embassy, contenting
ourselves merely with inquiring whether the King was at Paris. It was
our good fortune to learn that he was.

As the evening passed we felt ourselves to be the objects of a
particular scrutiny. Our new friends grew most curious concerning us.
After we had supped they asked us to take a hand at the cards. My two
companions accepted this invitation; but I refrained from it because
I was still very poor, and perhaps quite as conclusively because my
northern breeding induces the virtue of caution.

No sooner had Sir Richard Pendragon and the Count of Nullepart begun to
play than the interest of these gentlemen grew lively indeed. This was
not so much aroused by the demeanour of the conqueror of M. du Bartas,
but rather by that of the Count of Nullepart, who, in spite of his long
beard and rustical Spanish, betrayed his true condition in unsuspected
ways to those who were themselves high-born.

First, they observed his white and shapely hands as they lay upon the
board. Again, there was the delicacy of his features, the natural
politeness of his gestures; and yet again, they could not fail to
detect the subtle and charming quality of the accent that lurked
beneath his assumption of a rustical brogue. Thus it fell out that
presently they came once more to confer among themselves, and then one
of these gentlemen said with a most profound respect to the so-called
Señor Fulano, “By my life, monseigneur, is not this a----”

Before this gentleman could conclude his remark the Count of Nullepart
answered him in his charming natural speech and in the French tongue,
“My good Clery, you are seldom prudent in the evening; and I am told
it is entirely due to this misfortune of yours that you still remain
without advancement. All the world knows that at Paris nowadays one
must learn to see little and to speak less.”

No sooner had the gentlemen of the King’s Guard recovered from an
astonishment which at first seemed to overwhelm them than they began to
shout with laughter. For what reason they should thus view the matter I
cannot explain; but from that moment a more formal air was imparted to
the assembly. Something of ceremony declared itself, and the manner of
all present became perceptibly less easy. Still this may in a measure
have been due to the fact that these gentlemen put forth remarkable and
in some cases highly ludicrous efforts to conduct their discourse in
Castilian.

In one particular, however, our singular companion saw fit to rebuke
them. They persisted in bestowing upon him the title of “Monseigneur,”
so that presently he was moved to exclaim, “I pray you remember, my
good friends, that I am neither more nor less than the worshipful
Señor Fulano, worshipful kinsman to the worshipful burgomaster of the
worshipful town of El Dorado. Beyond this I claim no title. And when
the Señor Fulano comes among you to-morrow at the Louvre, which a
conspiracy on the part of fortune has rendered necessary, I pray you
not to call the honest person out of his true degree.”

Laughter and surprise greeted this speech; yet a kind of respect was
paid to it, and during the rest of the evening they were careful to
heed this request.

These gentlemen sat at their gaming far into the night. The play
was high; gold pieces were numerous, being piled upon the table and
exchanged freely. Also they drank an immense quantity of a very
superior kind of red wine. Whatever the individual fortunes of the
players, and of these I cannot speak, there was at least one among them
who rose from the board considerably richer in the things of this world
than when he sat down at it. I allude to Sir Richard Pendragon. Both
the Count of Nullepart and myself were fain to observe that, whenever
it came to the Englishman’s turn to take the dice in hand, quite as
often as not he would have the singular good fortune to cast the double
six.



CHAPTER XXVI

OF OUR APPEARANCE AT THE LOUVRE BEFORE KING LOUIS


AT noon the next day we set out upon our embassy to the King of France.
However, before so doing, at the instance of Sir Richard Pendragon
we repaired to a furrier’s shop in a little narrow street behind the
church called Notre Dame, which the Count of Nullepart informed us
was the first in the city. Here we purchased three baldricks of an
extraordinary brilliancy, trimmed with ermine.

To our surprise, Sir Richard Pendragon disbursed the sum necessary to
this magnificence, for his winnings of the previous night had been
considerable. Besides, as he declared, it was due to our mistress “that
the plenipotentiary-extraordinaire of the young queen’s majesty should
appear at Paris like a man of condition, and that the retinue by whom
he was accompanied should appear in the same guise, because they had
worldly minds at the French court, and it would be easier to conduct
state business if they went upon terms of familiarity with the current
mode.”

To this piece of wisdom the Count of Nullepart assented laughingly. And
when our leader came to put on his baldrick this mirth bubbled up to a
point, for Sir Richard Pendragon was fain to add to it a pair of new
shoes with large silver buckles and a handsome collar of lace.

I confess that in this I approved of the Englishman’s conduct. And I
think we both felt the Count of Nullepart’s laughter to be somewhat ill
judged and out of place. Because in a city like Paris, which in the
light of day is not unpleasing, and among such a people as the French,
whom travellers allow to have a savour of the civilized arts, we deemed
that a certain richness among men of birth was not only expedient but
necessary.

Therefore I put on my new baldrick trimmed with ermine, also my new
shoes with silver buckles and my fine collar of lace which also had
been given to us. And let me tell you, reader, that never in my life
have I felt myself to be attired more worthily, a little the plain side
of splendour. Even then I felt that I did not compare with the leader
of our embassy, who, as he said, “to remove any lingering traces of the
provinces,” added to the bedizenments of his person a number of jewels
which his good fortune of the previous night enabled him to obtain;
and, further, as a crown to the whole, a sort of jewelled cockado that
is worn by the potentates of Eastern climes.

To obtain a field for the display of our magnificence, of which I
believe the three of us were proudly and justly conscious, we proceeded
slowly, arm-in-arm, down the centre of the streets of Paris; and
of almost every second person that passed us Sir Richard Pendragon
inquired in a haughty voice of the way to the palace of the King of
France.

I suppose it was our high and martial looks in company of our
resplendent attire--I may say that Sir Richard Pendragon had chosen
scarlet for the colour of our baldricks, that they might contrast
elegantly with the bright yellow of his own--that soon began to attract
the notice of the Parisians. Ere long a number of these curious persons
were following in our wake. By the time we had traversed the length of
two streets something of a crowd had collected upon our heels; and this
circumstance appeared to afford Sir Richard Pendragon a great deal of
pleasure.

“These good souls can see we are on the way to King Lewie,” said he.
“I am perfectly sure they mistake me for the Emperor Maximilian,
although I have five inches the better of my old crony in the matter
of perpendicularity, and at least six in the matter of circumference.
Still they cannot be expected to be informed of it. And prithee, good
Don Miguel Jesus Maria de Sarda y Boegas, do you observe how all eyes
are for my Persian cockado? I doubt not it looks very brave with court
livery; and it will afford me not the least surprise if King Lewie, who
is a good fellow, comes to adopt it at the court of France.”

Just as the English giant had concluded this speech, a little old woman
came up behind him and plucked him eagerly by the cloak.

“Good Master Tumbler,” said she, “if you will stand on your head I will
give you a groat; and if you will swallow your sword you shall have a
new franc piece.”

Sir Richard Pendragon plucked his cloak away fiercely from the old
creature and walked on with his head in the air, as though he had not
heard her. During the next moment, however, an unmannerly urchin had
thrown a cake of mud at the Persian cockado.

By the time we had come to the gates of the Louvre, the press was so
great that it had become difficult to proceed in it. Indeed, according
to the Count of Nullepart’s computation, and he seemed to derive much
pleasure from assessing it, it could not have been less than a thousand
persons.

To the astonishment of our leader, when we came before the gates of the
palace, the soldiers of the King’s Guard, who kept the royal entrance,
declined to allow us to pass. And when Sir Richard Pendragon threatened
peremptorily to cut off the ears of their captain, the prospect of our
gaining admittance did not seem to improve. For some reason, which I
cannot explain, the attitude of the King’s Guard seemed greatly to
please the mob that was pressing around us.

Sir Richard Pendragon was fain to produce the cartel of our mistress
duly sealed and inscribed: “To Lewis Our Nephew in His Court at Paris,
by the hands of Our Good Servants.” Yet even this document went without
effect, if only for the reason, as the Count of Nullepart assured us,
that the captain of the King’s Guard was unable so much as to decipher
the superscription.

In the next minute there was almost a riot in the open street. The
English giant, seeming to detect cries of derision arising about him,
turned to the ever-increasing multitude and observing a low fellow that
was near him in the act of making an insulting grimace, he made no more
to do, but lifted him up bodily, and flung him like a sack of flour
upon the heads of the people.

Upon this, mud and stones began to fly past us. And a missile having
struck Sir Richard Pendragon upon the cheek, he drew his sword and
began to lay about him lustily with the flat of it.

Our situation was now one of great peril. Three persons, whatever
their valour, were powerless to defend themselves from a press of this
magnitude. I incline to think our fate would have been a sorry one had
not the mother-wit of the Count of Nullepart arranged our deliverance.
While the mob were surging angrily around us and stones were flying
about our ears, our companion spoke some words in a low voice to
the captain of the King’s Guard, and this time he used the French
tongue. The effect was like magic. The captain instantly removed his
plumed hat, and bowing very low, led us through the gate and into the
precincts of the palace, leaving his company to deal in what sort it
suited them with a mob that by now was in no gentle humour.

Once within the walls of the palace, the Count of Nullepart dismissed
the King’s officer with a word of thanks; and then, under the count’s
own direction, we entered an exceeding large antechamber, which was
thronged with as fine a company as I have ever beheld. There were
priests of high learning and dignity, wearing their soutanes; there
were soldiers in bright doublets and shining armour; there were austere
and sombre-coated ministers; there were gay and handsome courtiers
in very modish and brilliant attire; and beyond all else there was a
number of beautiful ladies.

This fine company was talking very loudly and laughing very gaily at
the time we came into the room. But our entrance being a public one,
mainly owing to the manner in which Sir Richard Pendragon clanked his
spurs on the marble floor and the great voice in which he conversed
with the Count of Nullepart, the attention of all present was
immediately drawn upon us. Now I know not whether it was due to the
magnificence of our apparel or the pride of our bearing, yet the lively
talk and the gay mirth subsided in the most sudden manner. Each person
in the room seemed to turn to regard us with a wonderment that scorned
disguise; and then the silence was broken by a titter from one of the
fine ladies.

The court gallants who surrounded them were not slow to follow their
example.

The leader of our embassy, however, was not disconcerted in the least
by this public rudeness. Sir Richard Pendragon stroked his chin with
a disdain that appeared to amuse these courtiers the more; and then,
turning at his leisure to the richly attired gallant that was nearest
to him, he said in a voice like thunder, “Hi, you, sirrah, you with
a face like a monkey, do you go to the King your master, and do you
inform him that an embassy is come from Spain upon an affair of
delicacy.”

The youthful courtier placed his jewelled fingers on the hilt of his
sword. His unseasonable mirth was now changed to a look of ferocious
anger.

“Do you hear me, good jackanapes?” said the English giant in his great
insolent voice that surmounted everything and re-echoed to the high
ceiling upon which was a painting of Venus and Cupid.

“Mon Dieu!” cried the courtier, livid with passion, “I have a mind to
run you through the body, you canary-coloured barbarian!”

“A mind, did you say, good jackanapes?” said the Englishman, with a
roar of laughter. “Why, a thousand such poor dogs could not muster a
mind among you.”

By now all the persons in the room were gathered around us. The grave
among them were amazed; the young, and particularly those that were
female, shaken with mirth; and the rest in all degrees of anger,
incredulity, excitement, and a desire for diversion. Yet so sorely
incensed was this youthful gallant that I verily believe, the place and
the company notwithstanding, he would have been moved to an act of open
violence to avenge the insult that had been set upon him, had there not
stepped forth from the throng one who bore every mark of dignity and
high consideration.

“I ask your pardon, Monsieur Ambassador,” said he with a courtesy that
was very grave, “but if it is your desire to have an audience of his
majesty the King, will you have the good kindness to accompany me into
another room.”

“I am at your service, mounseer,” said the Englishman. “I will go with
you willingly. It will give one who carries the blood of kings under
his doublet a great deal of pleasure to escape out of this kennel in
which his cousin of France keeps his puppy dogs.”

Speaking thus, our leader threw a glance around him of great
effrontery, which ministered further to the amazement of those who were
present. He then followed this high officer of the court into another
room. The Count of Nullepart and myself accompanied him.

Here we found ourselves alone, which, considering Sir Richard
Pendragon’s present humour, I cannot help thinking was a fortunate
circumstance. The chamberlain withdrew in order to convey our business
to his royal master. No sooner had he done so than the Count of
Nullepart broke forth into an outburst of inextinguishable laughter.

Sir Richard Pendragon viewed the Count of Nullepart’s demeanour with
a grave disdain. Further, he assured me privily, that “a man’s nation
could not hide itself when his foot was on his native soil. Mounseer
Nullepart was a good fellow enough, but there was no mistaking his
nationality.”

In so far as the Englishman deplored the Count of Nullepart’s levity I
was in accord with him. Yet, for my own part, having the sangre azul
of Spain in my veins, which is apt to insist that a courtly bearing is
beyond all things essential to him who would converse with the great of
the earth, I could not help but regret the manner in which our leader
had invaded the palace of the most Christian prince.

As we remained thus to await an audience of the King of France, I
began to fear dreadfully lest the leader of our embassy should mislay
his manners before the Sovereign. The walls of the room were covered
by mirrors; and as Sir Richard Pendragon stood before each of them in
turn, preening himself like a bird of bright plumage, now with his
bonnet on his head to judge the appearance of his Persian cockado,
now with it off to see how he seemed without it, I grew sensible of a
concern for the affronts our singular leader was like to put upon the
Father of his People.

Six times Sir Richard Pendragon put his bonnet on before the mirrors,
and six times he took it off again. He then sighed deeply, and said,
“Prithee, good Miguel, in how far would you consider that Spain is a
civilized nation?”

“Good Sir Richard Pendragon,” I said, “surely your question asks not
an answer. From the time of the Cid, as all the world knows, Spain has
been the most civilized country on the face of the earth.”

“I understand that perfectly, good Don,” said Sir Richard Pendragon.
“But making abatement for your native peninsularity, which in its
due place and season is commendable, I would ask you whether, in my
capacity of plenipotentiary-extraordinaire to a Spanish princess, I
might come before the King of France wearing my bonnet, because I
find this Persian cockado sets off my countenance in a very proper,
majestical, modish, yet not foppish manner.”

“Good Sir Richard Pendragon,” answered I, “I do conceive that one who
has the sangre azul of Spain in his veins may be allowed to answer
your question judicially. Nothing could less beseem a representative
of Spanish nobility than that wearing his bonnet he should enter the
presence of a Christian sovereign.”

This opinion caused Sir Richard’s face to fall.

“It could be done by the ambassador of the Ottoman Empire,” said he,
“and the Turks are religious-men. The representatives of Morocco could
do it also, and the Moors are a very ancient people. And of course at
Teheran it is the mode. And if this Louis, this frog-eating French
fellow, were mine old gossip Maximilian, whose kingdom is four times
the size of France, the thing could be done so easily as you might
count nine.”

“Good Sir Richard Pendragon,” I said gravely, “this act which you
contemplate would be a blot upon the fair fame of Spain, of which these
many years we have been so jealous.”

Now I think my demeanour must have convinced Sir Richard Pendragon that
my opinion was a just one, had not the Count of Nullepart, who had laid
aside his mirth to listen to our conversation, interposed an opinion of
his own. And that opinion, as I grieve to inform the gentle reader, was
far from agreeing with the one I myself had given.

“Good Sir Richard Pendragon,” said the Count of Nullepart in his most
subtle and melodious accent, “it seems to my mind that these parallels
you have been learned enough to adduce from Constantinople, Tangier,
Teheran, and other centres of light are extremely pregnant to this
embassy. If the measure of civilization in such places--and as you say,
in those countries religion is not unknown--would permit the diplomatic
body to appear bonneted à la Persie before a crowned Christian prince,
it seems to me that you have furnished the clearest reason why you
should conform to their usage.”

“You speak well, mounseer, you speak well,” said Sir Richard Pendragon
with a complacent air.

“My good friends,” said I, “I deplore the fact that these are not my
views. Let me assure you that the act you contemplate would be far from
the dignity of Spain.”

The Count of Nullepart, observing that I was exercised upon the
subject, was good enough to make a proviso.

“Perchance, good Sir Richard,” said he, “there is one formality we
should observe if we would enter the presence of majesty bonneted à la
Persie. We owe it to the dignity of France, I think, that we follow the
practice of Mohammedan countries. If we wear our bonnets, it seems to
me that we must remove our shoes.”

To this proposal Sir Richard Pendragon seemed loth to assent. The
Count of Nullepart, with great courtesy, appealed to my judgment. Now
I, although extremely reluctant to appear in my bonnet before a great
Christian sovereign, yet felt that if such a course was imperative,
the Count of Nullepart’s suggestion came from a quarter where breeding
was admired. So familiar was he with the temper of courts, and so
firmly did he adhere to the opinion that the removal of our shoes
was necessary if the leader of our embassy was determined to wear
his bonnet, that I gave my sanction to this proposal. But it was not
until we had had further controversy upon the subject that Sir Richard
Pendragon, still declining to remove his bonnet, at last consented to
take off his shoes.

“Perhaps,” said he, as he reluctantly removed them, “it will give
France a better notion of our breeding.”

However, when he had discarded them and he came to survey their
buckles, he grew discomposed in his mind. He had purchased them
expressly that morning, and very handsome and imposing did they look.

“By my good soul,” he said, “I am not at all clear that silver buckles
do not make a better appearance than Persian cockadoes in the palaces
of the West.”

“It is a mere matter of taste, my dear Sir Richard,” said the Count of
Nullepart, smiling.

Yet the count had already followed the example of his leader, having
put on his bonnet and having doffed his shoes. I also had deemed it
necessary to do the same.

Therefore, when the grave French nobleman presently returned to say
that the most Christian King would see us in audience, he found us
seated in somewhat remarkable case.



CHAPTER XXVII

OF OUR AUDIENCE OF THE MOST CHRISTIAN KING


I THINK the Marquis de Contreville-Lancy--that, as we afterwards
learned, was the name of this gentleman--had some little surprise
when he saw in what fashion we were disposed for our audience of the
King, his master. Yet, if surprised he was, and I think, good reader,
in this instance a little of such an eminently natural feeling is to
be pardoned, he was far too grave and serious a nobleman to display
it unduly. Yet I feel sure he viewed our appearance not without
displeasure, and I believe it gave as high a relief to his feelings
as it did to my own, when Sir Richard Pendragon coming to stand up,
exclaimed, “This French marble is plaguy cold to the feet. Upon my good
soul! it is a kind of distemper to buy a pair of shoes tricked with
silver and then to walk barefoot before the king’s majesty.”

“All the same, good Sir Richard,” said the Count of Nullepart, “it is
well known that the etiquette of the French court is very nice.”

In consequence of Sir Richard Pendragon’s new qualms, the Marquis de
Contreville-Lancy was taken into our counsels. And I feel bound to
state that the reference to this dignified nobleman proved highly
fortunate. He persuaded Sir Richard Pendragon not only to don his
shoes, but also to doff his bonnet. For he declared that any other
proceeding would gravely imperil our embassy.

This piece of whimsicality being thus happily adjusted, we repaired
in a wholly civilized mode to the presence of the first prince of the
age. I cannot tell you, reader, what were my feelings when for the
first time in my life, and at a period when I had barely attained to
the estate of manhood, I found myself within a few paces of so august a
personage.

Upon first coming into the presence of King Louis I could observe very
little, for a most singular haze rose before my eyes. When afterwards I
came to mention this phenomenon to the learned Count of Nullepart, he
said that all who entered the presence of majesty were thus afflicted.
It was a kind of exhalation, he said, which embodied their divinity. At
the time, however, I was not aware of this interesting fact in natural
philosophy. I only knew that there was nothing in the apartment that I
could descry at all clearly, yet, understanding by a kind of instinct
that my two companions were bowing low, I followed their example.

When at last I could see the King more fully he was conversing with
Sir Richard Pendragon. The remarkable man who had come to lead our
embassy had the seemliness to conduct himself with a most polite
civility, of which I had scarcely suspected him to be capable. After
humbly saluting the hand of the monarch, he paid King Louis some highly
flattering addresses, and sinking to one knee--an act of courtly homage
that was so well performed that it must have been the fruit of long
practice--presented to the King the cartel of our mistress.

While one of his ministers read the terms of the reference aloud to the
King, who, of course, was too great a personage to read it himself,
I was able to muster my wits sufficiently to mark the most Christian
prince. And, good reader, you will doubtless call in question the
veracity of my two eyes when I assert that the French King Louis was a
small, wizened, pock-marked man, with a face, as became the embodiment
of his nation, that was not unlike a frog’s. His hair was red in
colour; there was a marked cast in his right eye; the lids were twisted
and puckered in a most curious manner; his insignificant person and
particularly his puny hands were twitching constantly; his voice was
not agreeable; and I could not decide whether the colour of his eyes
was brown or grey or dark green--the Count of Nullepart inclined to the
latter opinion, Sir Richard Pendragon to the former--yet, good reader,
I assure you solemnly that, notwithstanding all these disabilities, the
French sovereign was every inch a prince.

There were three or four of the King’s ministers present in the room,
with ruffs about their necks and short pointed beards. When they had
read madam’s communication, the King seemed puzzled to know who his
correspondent might be. It appeared that he had not the faintest
recollection of his aunt. And, as I conceived, somewhat singularly, the
ruler of France showed a livelier concern for this relationship than
for the demand that we had come to make upon his friendship.

At the command of the King an enormous genealogical chart was brought
into the room. Being laid upon the table, it provoked the greatest
curiosity. One and all scrutinized it with diligence, King Louis with
an even shrewder regard than the rest. And presently he was able to
convince himself that in Spain there dwelt an aunt of his of whom he
had neither seen nor heard.

The King having duly established their kinship, proceeded to ply Sir
Richard Pendragon with some pertinent questions, which the Englishman
answered in the grave manner of a true ambassador.

“A proud and royal lady, good your majesty,” said Sir Richard
Pendragon, “every inch a queen. She hath loyal and shrewd advisers,
good your majesty, among them these famous gentlemen and one who shall
be nameless.”

The King desired that the Count of Nullepart and myself should be
presented to him. Sir Richard Pendragon undertook this office. With an
air of magnificence that nought could surpass he recited our titles
and our merit; and had we discovered anything to be lacking in the
character he gave us we must have been ambitious men. It seemed that
the most noble the Marquis of Fulano was the most accomplished minister
in Spain; while I was a great lord, and, in spite of my tender years,
by no means the least of its captains.

“And may I assure you, sire,” said this extraordinary envoy, “the most
excellent queen’s majesty hath a standing army of not less than forty
thousand men-at-arms.”

This revelation of the puissance of our mistress was not without its
effect upon the King and his ministers. At first they seemed to extend
only a languid interest to our business, but the manner in which Sir
Richard Pendragon conducted it began to stimulate their attention.

Indeed, it must have taken very cold-blooded statesmen not to derive
interest from Sir Richard Pendragon’s presentment of the case. Taking
the genealogical chart as a kind of map of Spain, with one finger he
indicated the stronghold of the King of Castile, at fifty leagues’
distance from Toledo, and with another traced his broad dominion
upon which our mistress was already marching with forty thousand
men-at-arms. He declared that it was the Countess Sylvia’s plan to
draw the King of Castile out of his stronghold by falling upon and
laying waste his unprotected lands; and then, while the Castilian was
fully engaged in defending his own, she proposed that an army of her
royal nephew’s should come up in the rear--quite unexpectedly, for the
nature of this present mission was known to none--enter the unprotected
stronghold of the former enemy of King Louis, and seize it for France.

With such conviction and enthusiasm did Sir Richard Pendragon expound
a plan of war that was entirely of his own invention, that King Louis,
who at first had not listened very closely to a proposal that was
outside the sphere of his politics, began to nod his head in approval.
And finally the King of France was moved to hold animated converse with
his ministers.

After they had spoken together for some while, one of these gentlemen
directed Sir Richard Pendragon’s attention to the fact that although
ten thousand was the number of soldiers that he asked for, according
to the tenor of madam’s petition the number was no more than four
thousand. Thereupon Sir Richard Pendragon produced a large pair of
horn spectacles, adjusted them gravely, and after scrutinizing the
parchment very carefully, although there is reason to believe that
madam’s ambassador was able to read little of the Spanish tongue,
he gave it as his opinion that the four thousand was an undoubted
error of the scrivener’s, inasmuch--and he spoke very truly in this
particular--that the author of the proposal was himself.

This assurance being given, the King and his ministers again conferred;
and presently the audience was terminated by his Majesty saying that
this affair was of such moment that he desired twenty-four hours in
which to sit in council with his advisers. The King then took leave
of us, yet with a courteous request that the envoys of his respected
aunt--who, according to Sir Richard Pendragon, was a learned and devout
lady of mature years--should be lodged in the palace during their stay
at Paris, and further, that they should engage themselves to dine with
him that evening.



CHAPTER XXVIII

OF FURTHER PASSAGES IN THE LOUVRE AT PARIS


WHEN madam’s three envoys came to find themselves in the private
apartments that had been given to them by the King of France, I had
no words in which to express my amazement at Sir Richard Pendragon’s
audacity. When I remembered that the Countess Sylvia was scarcely more
than a child, with a beggarly retinue of three hundred men-at-arms,
who would be wholly incapable of holding the castle of Montesina
against the Castilian host; and when beside this dismal truth I set the
dazzling story by which Sir Richard Pendragon had cozened one of the
first princes of his age, I did not know whether it was not the bounden
duty of a caballero of Spain to repair to King Louis and confess the
fact.

All the rest of that day this problem afflicted me sorely. In these
circumstances my natural guide was the Count of Nullepart, who was an
older head and a wiser; and one who, to judge by his conversation, was
not unacquainted with the things that concern man’s higher nature. But
when I mentioned to him my perplexity, his only reply was to break out
into laughter.

Finally, in my concern, I spoke of this matter to its author. He, with
his court gravity still upon him, heard me out very patiently, and made
answer with great solemnity.

“Most noble marquis,” said he, “you must forgive the personal opinion
of a good man, of a chief ornament of a shining age; but I do not think
you would use these questions, marquis, had you a nicer familiarity
with courts. Believe me, marquis, it is not the rule in such elevated
places to observe that slavishness to the sober verities which at once
betrays the mind of the provincial. I ask you, noble marquis, what kind
of a figure should we have cut before the King’s majesty had we merely
acquainted him with the sober and common aspect of the case? Do you
suppose the first prince of his age would have lodged madam’s envoys
in his palace--she who so recently has been whipped and put to bed by
her old nurse? Do you think he would have had his ministers attend him
in privy council? Do you think that this evening we should have been
bidden to attend an entertainment? Not so, noble marquis. Had it come
to the ear of the King’s majesty that the might of the neat little
doxey was measured by three hundred men-at-arms and an old boarhound,
in less than an hour we should have been sent packing out of the city.
And, most noble marquis, let me perpend: one who hath the blood of
kings under his doublet would be the last to hold this virtuous prince
to contumely, for English Dickon and his friend the Sophy would, in
these circumstances, have done the same.”

“But, good Sir Richard Pendragon,” said I, “my illustrious father has
assured me that truth is always truth; that sober verity is sober
verity equally in the king’s palace, in the marts of the middling, or
in the pestilent hovels of the poor.”

“If this was your father’s opinion, noble marquis,” said the
Englishman, “it is wonderful that he was able to make you a gift of
even ten crowns at his burial. Where can you and he have dwelt, noble
marquis, not to be aware that the truth hath more than one countenance?
To the vulgar truth hath one aspect, to the learned it hath an hundred
aspects. That which a private person such as yourself might consider
an army, a veritable potentate might deride as unworthy of his regard.
Permit me, noble marquis, to speak a word in your ear. Do not, I pray
you, ever mention three hundred men-at-arms to the King of France.”

However, during the remainder of that day this matter continued to run
much in my thoughts. And this was in despite of Sir Richard’s mode of
reasoning, which I lacked the subtlety of mind to seize. Yet I do not
want for parts, I think. Philosophy has been current in my mother’s
family for at least an hundred years, and as I have said already in
this history, her brother Nicholas was a clerk of Salamanca, and wore a
purple gown. In the depth of my perplexity I turned again to the Count
of Nullepart, who, I am sure, nature had designed to be my guide. But
when I mentioned this subject to him for the second time, he sat down
on a settle, placed both hands on his knees, and laughed in such an
immoderate fashion that the tears rolled down his cheeks.

Be all this as it may, we were lodged in the palace of the King, and
that evening attended a great entertainment. There were ladies royal
and beautiful; gallant and noble gentlemen, illustrious in war and the
polite arts; also there was a noise of loud music.

In my condition of marquis--I knew not how to disclaim that degree
without showing myself deficient in breeding--and honourable envoy to a
princess, I was seated at the table of the King of France. Upon either
hand were ladies of the blood-royal. If I may venture to be quite
candid in this matter--and if I am not my history will have no value,
yet I hope such frankness will have no appearance of discourtesy to the
household of a king--neither of these ladies was in the blush of youth,
nor was she amazingly beautiful. On the score of their wit perhaps I
may be excused from speaking; for as they had no Spanish and I had no
French, our conversation was not so brilliant as some at the table.

Opposite to me sat the Count of Nullepart, or, as he was now called,
the Marquis Fulano, a very singular title for a hidalgo of Spain.
His circumstances appeared to be identical with my own. He also
was encompassed by two royal princesses, one of whom had not a
tooth--Heaven defend me for this candour!--and looked hardly a day less
than ninety; while the other had an unfortunate malformation of the
shoulders and a pair of eyes which glittered like those of a goshawk.
As the Count of Nullepart insisted on speaking a rustic Spanish in a
guttural voice that was quite foreign to his natural one, and as these
royal ladies confined themselves to their mother tongue, the Count of
Nullepart’s intercourse must have ranked next to my own. Yet, if the
cheerful mirth of his countenance was a true index to his feelings upon
the subject, his disappointment could not have galled him very deeply.

In the course of that evening it was freely rumoured that the Marquis
Fulano was none other than a near kinsman--some said the second
son--of the King of France. Indeed, the laughter that his appearance
and behaviour excited, and yet the high respect that was paid to them
on every hand, was such as could never have been extended to the
idiosyncrasies of a private person. From that hour to this neither Sir
Richard Pendragon nor myself has ever been able to win such an amazing
admission from the Count of Nullepart. But as he has never thought well
in anywise to deny it, and as the demeanour of all at the French court
was such as I have declared it to be, there is every reason to suppose
that our comrade’s true degree was of this exalted nature.

Sir Richard Pendragon was also in very singular case. Will you believe
me, reader, when I inform you that this swaggerer, this maltreater of
the truth, this robber of churches, this uncouth barbarian, had the
King of France upon his left hand and the Queen upon his right? And
so little was this ready-tongued adventurer abashed by the exalted
position in which he found himself, that from the beginning of the
meal he held the King in discourse, and handsomely retained the royal
interest until it was concluded.

What it was that Sir Richard Pendragon found to say to the Father of
his People I know not. But if his conversation was inspired by the
same disrespect for the sober verities as had distinguished it earlier
in the day, I doubt not that the King’s majesty learned much that the
wisest of his ministers had not dreamed that he should know.

Much of this mad Englishman’s discourse was comprised of fantasy
and comic tales. By the time he had consumed a liberal quantity of
wine, which to a less commodious nature must have been a source of
inconvenience, he kept the good King Louis in a perpetual state of
laughter. It was the same with his royal consort. Indeed, grievous to
relate, the Count of Nullepart subsequently made the accusation against
Sir Richard Pendragon that he was the only person of his acquaintancy
at the French court who was capable of bringing the blush of modesty to
the cheek of the Queen-Mother.

In despite of this, Sir Richard Pendragon had great success on that
memorable evening; and I think he was the envy of more than one
ambitious courtier who had spent his life in flattering princes.
Certainly no man could have been in a situation to admire himself more,
and certainly no man could have been better equipped by nature to
render to himself that office.

Owing to the manner in which fortune had smiled that evening upon our
leader, he awaited the King’s decision with the greatest complacency.
He assured the Count of Nullepart “that by the inner light of the mind
he saw himself already at the head of those ten thousand Gauls.” And
further, having once seen himself in the place of a great captain, by
an additional process of the imagination which I believe is a curious
quality in which his countrymen are highly gifted, he saw himself as
the future king of the Spains.

After his success at the King’s board, Sir Richard invaded my
sleeping-chamber that night in the palace, and regaled me until the
dawn with the bright future that lay before us. Once the King of
France gave over ten thousand men to his leadership, he showed in what
manner he, Richard Pendragon, knight of England, with the blood of
kings under his doublet, would crush the proud Castilian by the virtue
of deep strategy and the power of the understanding.

About the hour the golden daylight had begun to stream through the
shutters of our royal lodging, the English giant had had himself
crowned by the Archbishop of Seville; he had led to the altar the
Countess Sylvia, who, he said, after due consideration of the merits
of Betty Tucker, his accomplished countrywoman, was in some ways the
more fitted to be the royal consort if he were called to the Spanish
monarchy; and further, he had conferred great place in his household
upon the Count of Nullepart and myself, being good enough to declare
that we could be trusted to fill it worthily.

Later in the morning, however, when we repaired to the audience-chamber
to receive the King’s decision, these rosy visions did not appear
so bright. For we came upon another aspect of the great King Louis.
Although not indisposed to lend ten thousand men to his Spanish aunt
upon terms thereafter to be mentioned, because it seemed we had come
in a season when his cousins of Navarre and Burgundy were behaving
reasonably, yet there was a condition to observe; and this was the key
to the negotiation. The sum of one hundred thousand crowns in gold must
be lodged in the King’s treasure chest ere a single soldier of France
found his way across the Pyrenees.

Such a condition had not been foreseen by Sir Richard Pendragon’s
diplomacy. The blow to him was sore; yet he contrived to dissemble
his chagrin skilfully, and with all the cunning imaginable strove to
purchase the aid of France upon lighter terms. In despite, however, of
Sir Richard Pendragon’s wiles, his flatteries, and the rosy hues in
which he painted the future, King Louis remained obdurate. In fact,
in this matter the first prince of his age discovered a side to his
character for which only a sour spirit could have been prepared. As Sir
Richard Pendragon declared subsequently, “he haggled like a Fleming.”
He declined to abate a penny of emolument for the proposed service to
his Spanish aunt. And not only this, but in regard to such affairs
as leadership, conduct of the troops in the field, and division of
the spoil he rendered it clear to us that we were sadly out of our
reckoning.

Sir Richard Pendragon spent two hours in council with King Louis and
his advisers. He then bade them farewell in no very amiable humour. It
was abundantly clear that our embassy had failed completely. Even one
of the Englishman’s ingenuity could devise no means of surmounting the
heavy demands of this covetous prince.

Straightaway we left the palace. It was then our chief desire to set
a goodly number of leagues between us and this unlucky city of Paris.
For the period of twenty-four hours I think I have never seen a man in
such high dudgeon, so out of humour with all the world save himself, as
was our redoubtable leader. So sanguine had been his visions that he
had almost come to feel the rim of the Spanish crown upon his forehead.
Alas for his dreams! He now abused King Louis for “a poor-blooded
French dog that was fitter to be a grocer, a purveyor of hog’s lard and
garlic, than a true prince whose emoluments should have been one half
of a fair dominion--he would have been agreeable to allow the rascal
one half of the kingdom--had he not borne himself like a Fleming.”

As we turned our horses towards the Spanish frontier, seldom have I
heard such bitter curses. Yet, even making abatement for Sir Richard’s
sanguine temper, I marvelled that one of such wisdom as this Englishman
should have built such towering hopes upon such a poor foundation. As
I was fain to remark to the Count of Nullepart, “How could we suppose
that such as the King of France would give us an easy bargain? And how
could one so accomplished in the world as Sir Richard Pendragon deceive
himself so sorely upon such a subject?”

To this the Count of Nullepart rejoined, “My dear friend, a high poetic
temper puts a continual affront upon its possessor. This wonderful
Englishman travels three continents, ordering his ideas not by the
light of reason but by the light of fantasy. He takes no heed of those
obstacles which pedestrian minds cannot surmount. And although it is
true that on occasion he knocks his brains against them with no better
reward than a broken pate, yet through the world he goes, assailing
them with the winged heels of his imagination, so that, by my faith,
he is prone to overleap these barriers altogether. And I conceive, my
dear, that you and I, who are his humble followers, who, moving after
him at a respectful distance, are yet sworn to serve his whims, will
be not a little beguiled--we who are amateurs of the human heart--to
observe into what courses his fantasy will presently be leading him.”

In this the Count of Nullepart spoke correctly. We awaited the further
exploits of our remarkable leader with the highest curiosity.



CHAPTER XXIX

SIR RICHARD PENDRAGON’S STRATEGY


IT was not until we were clear of the soil of France that the
Englishman was able to shake off his resentment against King Louis,
“the pock-marked Flemish grocer,” as he dubbed him. Then it was that
in some mysterious manner his sanguine temper came again to his aid.
I cannot remember one who came near this Englishman in that power of
self-belief which renders a man in his own esteem not less than the
peer of nature.

In the lustre of his new designs he began to forget his cross in
fortune. Precisely what these were we had yet to discover; yet, as we
returned into my fair native country, it was clear that the mind of Sir
Richard Pendragon was moved by some new ambition. On several occasions
he brought his horse to a stand in order that he might proudly survey
the distant hills. And having done this he would cause them to re-echo
with his great baying laughter.

“O Dickon, Dickon!” he roared, “thou who art of the seed of that Uthyr
that was Arthur’s sire, and that was german-cousin to Giant Cormoran
that gorged upon Christian children in his Cornish fastness, what an
inveterately nimble humour thou hast, thou ruby-coloured one, with thy
lean look and thy high integrity!”

Then, having thus spoken, he would beat his thigh with his fist in such
wise as to provoke his curious beast Melanto to strive furiously to
throw him.

To the Count of Nullepart and myself the behaviour of this mad
Englishman grew ever more mysterious. Every night he declared to us
“that nothing forced the head veins like a cross in fortune.” And then
very gravely he would ask “whether the poltroonery of that French
poulter’s hare had in anywise daunted our faith in the quality of
king’s blood, because let it not be forgotten that it was borne by a
good mother’s son who walked modestly before the nations.”

For my own part, being of the northern provinces, which have the most
penetration of any district of Spain, I must confess that my faith in
Sir Richard Pendragon had been greatly impaired by the outcome of our
journey to Paris. Still, it was far from my intention to suggest this
to one who esteemed that personage so highly.

Therefore I still professed my allegiance, yet, I am afraid, in a
lukewarm manner. The Count of Nullepart, however, assured our leader,
with every appearance of gravity, that his faith in his strategy was
unshaken. Indeed, he pledged himself to embrace whatever further
courses he might devise.

Now, good reader, as you are to learn, the Count of Nullepart’s resolve
was to be tried sorely. And I, who had expressed no such confidence in
our singular commander, was also to be put grievously to the test.

It was not at once that Sir Richard Pendragon’s new design was unfolded
to us. In fact, it might be said that it was not disclosed until it
had been actually and marvellously wrought.

At first, in spite of the change in the Englishman’s demeanour, I am
bound to confess that I was very disconsolate when we returned into
Spain. It is true that Sir Richard was again as proud, sanguine, and
warlike as if he were riding at the head of ten thousand of King
Louis’s men-at-arms, yet not for an instant could I forget that he
went without attendance. I was extremely mindful of our failure, the
more particularly as the Countess Sylvia was in such sore need of the
succour we could not bring. Also I was fearful of the reception we were
like to meet with at the doomed castle of Montesina.

When I mentioned these fears to the Count of Nullepart he expressed
the conviction that all would be well. Indeed he declared that his
faith was unshaken in our incomparable leader. In this I felt that he
mocked me. Therefore I was fain to mention to Sir Richard Pendragon the
bitter pass in which we stood; whereupon he, in the strangest fashion
conceivable, stopped his horse in the middle of a hilly district, and
roared until it seemed that the whole earth was trembling with the
bolts of Jupiter.

“Why, you poor soul,” he cried, “would you suppose that we, who went
to France to procure an army, return to the young queen’s majesty with
nothing in our hands?”

“Good Sir Richard Pendragon,” said I, “in sober verity that is indeed
the case.”

“What a distemper is this, my son,” said the Englishman, “that you
should harbour such a thought? Do you not know, springald youth, that
no person of my nation ever returns from a foreign country with nothing
in his hands?”

“Good Sir Richard Pendragon,” I rejoined, “I am afraid I fail in this
instance to appreciate in what particular our hands are occupied.”

“Doubtless your own are empty, vain springald youth, because, like all
of your nation, your mind is barren.”

There was little satisfaction to be gained from such discourse as this.
If ever three servants were returning empty-handed to their mistress,
surely we were those three. And when I thought of the Castilian, who
no doubt was already besieging her castle with his great host, and
I remembered her unbending spirit, which had yet no more than three
hundred lieges to sustain it, my very dreams were poisoned as I lay
asleep, and I could have wept that we had borne such unfruitful service.

In my failure to reconcile Sir Richard Pendragon’s speeches and conduct
with the indisputable facts of the case, I was fain to consider him
unhinged, not in a few particulars, but in all. I was moved to believe
that his reverse at the hands of the French sovereign had overthrown
entirely a mind that could have never been very secure.

When we came near to the borders of Castile and made inquiry of
innkeepers and those who dwelt in market towns, our ears were assailed
with wars and the rumours thereof. And soon it became clear to us, as
we rode with all speed towards Montesina, that that which had been
predicted had come to pass. The King of Castile, said the public
voice, had moved out with a great host, was already lying before the
walls of the recalcitrant Duke of Montesina, and had sworn on the bones
of the Cid that he would not withdraw until they were razed to the
earth, and he had taken the whole of the duke’s dominion for his own
possession.

The Count of Nullepart, who, now that he was again upon Spanish
territory, had doffed his beard and resumed his charming manners,
seemed affected only to cheerfulness by these tidings. He was content,
he said, to follow in the wake of his friends, and should be curious to
learn the courses into which their strategy would lead him. Sir Richard
Pendragon also upon hearing the news was affected to pleasantness. A
smile of satisfaction spread over his countenance, and he expressed
the hope that misfortune would not wait too soon upon madam and her
defenders. I, however, had nothing of this disposition. Upon my life, I
could not see anything in these tidings save darkness and disaster. In
my view the failure of our embassy was the total failure of our hopes.
Three hundred men-at-arms would be powerless to cope with a great army,
even if they had this English giant to command them.

Indeed, at this season I was more than ever persuaded that the
Englishman was unhinged. Yet when I expressed this opinion to the Count
of Nullepart he merely laughed heartily. And if I ventured to address
any kind of remonstrance to Sir Richard Pendragon he would deride me in
such terms that I was obliged to hold my peace.

No sooner had we come into Castile, the enemy’s kingdom, than what I
was forced to regard as Sir Richard’s distemper took a more palpable
form. At a small rustic place, a three days’ journey from France,
he insisted that we should assume the guise of peasants, and should
consign our horses to the keeping of the proprietor of the local venta.

To my astonishment, he himself set the example we were to copy.
Doffing his magnificent canary-coloured doublet and all the rest of
the bedizenments he had acquired at Paris, even to the cockado in his
bonnet, he habited himself entirely in the garb of a peasant, so that,
making allowance for his bulk and his stature, I doubt whether “the
sainted lady his mother” would have known him.

By what means he had contrived such a disguise, and whence he had
obtained it we were unable to learn. In some places it was mightily
close to the skin; in others it was burst open; and further he had
sought out similar attire for the Count of Nullepart and myself.

Perhaps it were well to state that on my own part I had no intention
to submit to this unseemliness, because I could only regard the whole
matter as a distemper of the brain. Yet when, to my great surprise, I
saw the worshipful Count of Nullepart tricked out in this vulgar garb,
with his handsome face and shapely limbs emerging out of the rude
clothes of a clown, I was obliged to yield my dignity, since, whatever
the whimsicality of my companions, my youth rendered me no more than a
cadet in the service I had embraced. All the same, nothing could have
exceeded the disgust with which I doffed my fine clothes from Paris,
which were so admirably proper to the figure of a gentleman, and
exchanged them for the coarsest and most ill-fitting suit in which it
has ever been my lot to invest my person.

I was equally reluctant to part with Babieca, my honest horse. I
mentioned to my friends the distress such an act would cause me,
whereon it appeared that Sir Richard Pendragon shared these feelings in
the matter of his singular beast Melanto, and the Count of Nullepart
partook of them also in respect of his palfrey that was called
Monsieur. Therefore by the address of these two strange persons, who
certainly in this particular did not appear to be so whimsical as they
were in others, the keeper of the venta was persuaded to hold them in
his stable against the time when we should send for them again.

Doubtless it were well to state that the landlord of the venta was
hardly a free agent in regard to the horses. Sir Richard Pendragon
threatened him with such atrocious penalties if the three animals were
to go amiss within the next six months, even as to a single nail of
their shoes or a minor hair of their tails, that the cheeks of the poor
man were blanched with terror.

It was not until we had become privy to further whims of the
Englishman’s brain that we got upon our road. For early in the morning
as we were about to go forth, a cart used for the conveyance of water
was seen to be standing at the inn door. Skins hung from its sides, and
it was drawn by four sturdy mules. No water was contained in the cart,
but in lieu of it were three long poles such as are affected upon a
journey by the country people. Sir Richard gave one of these staves to
each of us, took one himself, and starting the mules upon their road,
led them out of the town in the direction of Toledo.

To all my inquiries as to what possible use there could be for an empty
water-cart and four sturdy mules I received the most unsatisfactory
answers. The Count of Nullepart still professed himself as wholly
in the hands of his commander. And he assured me solemnly that his
experience of Sir Richard Pendragon had taught him that whatever
were the actions of that singular man they were the fruits of a rare
intelligence and were greatly to be admired by those who had reverence
for the things of the mind.

As you will conceive, good reader, to this flattery Sir Richard
Pendragon--trudging through the dust and the mire with his long pole
in true peasant fashion, and wearing a great slouch hat and brass
rings in his ears, so that he looked more than ever like a robber,
and continually exhorting his four mules with barbarous oaths--gave
an assent that was most ready and gracious. He took occasion to pay
the Count of Nullepart a compliment of his own upon the power of his
philosophy and his old-fashioned respect for high intelligence, “the
which he was sore to observe in these days did not always obtain with
springald youth.” And the courteous gravity with which this English
barbarian assured the Count of Nullepart that he loved him for his
liberal opinions made me furious.

For could anything have been more unseemly than that we three persons
of birth and high breeding--in such a description Sir Richard Pendragon
is included by courtesy--should be pursuing the highways of Spain
in the company of a water-cart drawn by four mules and wearing the
rudest attire to be seen out of Galicia. Yet, as we moved through
the unfrequented country places at the rate of one league an hour,
there were some advantages at least to be taken from this fashion of
progress. We needed not to keep a watch for robbers, since they were
not likely to trouble three peasants who themselves had the appearance
of bandits. Neither had we need to fear falling in with the army
of Castile, because none could have discerned that three prominent
servants of the King’s enemy were hidden in such wretched guise. Again,
neither was there to be suspected in the homely and rustical figure of
a water-carrier the accomplished robber of churches.

Although such immunity seemed a high price to pay, for its penalties
still remained many and grievous, it presently began to appear that
some kind of a design was lurking in it. For in the course of a week’s
painful journeying, and as we moved slowly from place to place, I
seemed to discern that our leader was not so much unhinged as I had
feared.

Howbeit, to all my searching after that which lay in his mind, he would
only answer me with a droll mockery which he seemed greatly to relish.
Still, ever to allow a due to the devil, as we came nearer to Toledo he
showed no lack of that soldierly vigilance that always distinguished
him when he took the road. He was very precise and yet very cunning as
to the inquiries he made in regard to the disposition of the forces of
Castile.

We proceeded very warily as we approached the scene of King John’s
campaign; and thereby contrived to glean some information of what was
toward. All who have seen the famous castle of Montesina will not need
to be told that it is perhaps in the most invincible situation of any
fortress in Spain, for it stands upon a high and impregnable rock.
Although it was well known to the Countess Sylvia’s ruthless foe that
at this time she had no more than three hundred men-at-arms with which
to defend it, and that the duke, her father, was afflicted with years,
he yet deemed it wiser to gain his will by what in the language of war
is called a siege, rather than to win the fortress by open assault
at the point of the sword. The Castilian was a crafty prince and a
covetous.

It was no small satisfaction to Sir Richard Pendragon to learn that
King John, instead of enforcing the garrison, was content to invest
the castle of Montesina; and in order to starve it into surrender had
sat down before its walls. Yet it is no more than just to the King to
mention that before taking this course he had already made one assault
upon the rock, and had been repulsed with the loss of an hundred men.

This we learned as one night we unharnessed our mules at a posada, less
than a day’s journey from Toledo. Scarce had Sir Richard Pendragon
received this information than he beat his stave on the water-cart
and vowed that high heaven was smiling upon our enterprise. Indeed he
declared that the victory was already in our hands. It was vain for
me to seek an interpretation of this dark saying; yet by now I was
determined to accept all that was urged by this formidable character,
whom I had come to regard either as one of the wildest hare-brains of
the age or one of its foremost intelligences.



CHAPTER XXX

OF OUR ADVENTURES AMONG THE CASTILIAN HOST


I HAVE deemed it proper in the narration of that which follows to show
my own feelings precisely as they afflicted me at the time, and not
as they came to be modified by the strange things that happened. In
the end it was given to me to learn that Sir Richard Pendragon, so far
from being a hare-brain, was a very deep and masterful schemer. But
in so far as his designs passed beyond my comprehension at the period
of which I now treat, I have deemed it right not to anticipate that
final tribute which it will be necessary to pay to his character in the
appointed time and season.

On setting out that morning from the posada, at Sir Richard’s behest
we filled the cart and the skins with water and turned the heads of
our mules in the direction of the King of Castile’s army. I yielded
to these dispositions because, having come so far and having already
obeyed in many things, I felt there was no other course to be taken;
yet it was rather with the sense of being in a dream that I awaited
the manifestation of this new extravagance. What fantasy was this that
possessed our comrade? What new disorder of the mind had come upon him?

As towards evening we entered the lines of the Castilian army it ran
in my heart to revile the Count of Nullepart bitterly. It had come
upon me that he had permitted the Englishman to betray our embassy.
For trusting Sir Richard Pendragon so little it seemed to me that here
was his clear design. Yet a moment’s reflection showed that if the
Englishman was come to betray a mission that had failed so lamentably
it would profit him not at all. He must certainly lose his life; and
further, the means he had taken to accomplish his act of treachery
would hardly have been accompanied by this degree of masquerade.

When I heard the challenge, “Who goes there?” from the King’s soldiers
I felt a sudden chill upon my heart. Yet it was no more than a passing
cowardice, the fruit of circumstances so gravely remarkable, for our
leader was prompt to show himself as true to his trust and also as
infinitely cunning.

“A friend,” he answered with boldness and promptitude. He spoke in
a rustical Spanish of the northern provinces; and then in the same
dialect, in which his foreign brogue was most skilfully dissembled, he
said that he had come to bring water to the army of the most gracious
and sovereign prince.

“Well then, my lord and knight, you are a thousand times welcome,” said
the sentinel in those terms of high courtesy in which we Spaniards,
even in the humbler walks of life, excel the people of all other
nations.

It was then that I understood that our leader had judged sagaciously,
and that he had laid his plot very deep. In the guise of water-sellers
we could count on a welcome from an army in the field which had
suffered the travail of a long day.

Sir Richard Pendragon gave the sentinel a drink of water out of a
pannikin which was carried upon the back of the cart, and then after
further civilities upon both sides and a few questions from our cunning
leader upon the disposal of the King’s host, we moved off into the
darkness.

We made several leagues into the midst of the royal army, sustaining
every challenge of the sentinels in a like manner. And finally when
fatigue overcame us at last, we shared the hospitality of a number of
soldiers who sat round a camp-fire, who in exchange for our sweet and
cool water gave us of their fare.

From these we learned much. We were informed that the surrender of
the Castle of Montesina was expected to be an affair of three weeks.
It was victualled for that period; and King John in his tenderness
for his troops would not venture another assault upon the steep face
of the rock. They confessed that a former attack had been met with
a resolution they had not anticipated; and according to rumour, the
boldness of the defenders had been inspired by a young female who was
addicted to the practice of witchcraft.

However, to judge by their words, these soldiers were disposed to view
the campaign with levity. They vowed it was a holiday task, and had the
King’s assurance of it. They could only marvel that one so aged and
defenceless as the Duke of Montesina should have had the presumption
to resist them. And having no enemy to fear beyond the feeble creature
immured upon a high rock behind stone walls, they now permitted
themselves to dispense with much of that military precaution that
warfare renders necessary.

It was in a measure due to this laxity that Sir Richard Pendragon was
able to pursue his wonderful stratagem. This was so audacious that
even now when I recall it, after the lapse of years, it seems to be
the substance of a romantic tale. Certes it was born of a wild brain;
yet, upon my life, it was prosecuted with such a sober courage and
foresight, every detail was wrought with a skill so nice, every hap was
safeguarded with a judgment so ripe and a wit so supple, that this mad
plot has seemed almost to inhabit itself in the chaste light of reason.

A little after daybreak we three peasants with our water-cart left
these friendly quarters; and at least one of us was unable to foresee
the amazing things that were to befall ere he would again stretch his
limbs in repose. Throughout the day we moved freely within the lines
of the Castilian host, mixing with the soldiers upon familiar terms,
offering them water in exchange for the nimble cuarto, and bantering
them with rude jokes.

Then, as the sky grew dark again, we found ourselves within sight of
the pavilion that had been set up for the use of the King’s majesty. It
was a handsome and imposing tent, formed of a striped cloth of blue and
red, interwoven with the arms of Castile and flying its three lions.
An enclosure was formed around it with cords stretched upon poles; and
before the entrance were three sentinels with drawn swords.

For some time we stood observing the royal arrangements. A throng of
captains and courtiers was continually passing in and out of the King’s
tent. Then we drew off with our water-cart into a thicket that was
near, fed the honest mules, and proceeded to eat some cheese made out
of goats’ milk with which we had provided ourselves.

About an hour after sundown the moon rose; and this was a circumstance
that gave satisfaction to our leader.

“John Castilian,” said he, “there is an old score that is due to thee
by the hand of English Dickon that will not go much longer unrequited.”

Saying this the English giant produced a stout piece of cord from the
recesses of his jerkin, to which he added a short piece of iron, a
cloth, and a huge bag woven of hemp, which had been tied to the tail of
the water-cart. And swearing an oath in round London English, he waved
these articles in the face of the good lady the moon.

It was near to midnight when we led the water-cart out of the thicket.
We drove it to within a quarter of a league of that narrow path that
winds sheerly upwards to the heights of Montesina, and thereby to the
base of the walls of the duke’s castle. Hitching the mules to a tree in
a retired spot, we retraced our steps cautiously by the light of the
moon, until the outlines of the royal pavilion again took shape before
us.

Not a sound disturbed the stillness of the night, for the King of
Castile was no reveller. Doubtless his Majesty was already abed and
lapped in slumber. At the door of his tent we were able to discern the
drawn swords of the sentinels glancing to the moonlight as they mounted
guard.

As we emerged from the shelter of the trees into the open meadow in
which the pavilion was set, Sir Richard Pendragon, having taken the
precaution to tie the bag round his middle, got down upon all fours and
began to crawl like a great serpent through the grass towards the royal
dwelling. And as the Count of Nullepart immediately got himself down
upon his hands and knees also, and began to crawl after our leader, in
order not to be out of the hunt, in whatever our quarry might consist,
I was fain in these particulars to imitate their example.

Without causing a twig to break, we crept upon our hands and knees
to the rear of the royal tent. And so artfully did we make our way
that none perceived us when at last we came into its shadow, and
actually lay with our shoulders against its canvas walls. And the three
sentinels stood all unsuspecting in the moonlight, not fifty paces from
us, yet hidden by the body of the pavilion.

Hardly had we come to lie thus than the Englishman drew his dagger and
began to cut a large hole in the tent. And no sooner had I observed
this to be his occupation than a kind of wonderment overcame me, for at
last I had come to discern the depth, the daring, and the subtlety of
his invention.



CHAPTER XXXI

OF AN ASTOUNDING EPISODE


SCARCELY had Sir Richard Pendragon made a hole that was large enough to
accommodate his great bulk when we heard the footsteps of the sentinel
coming round to see that all was well. In a gentle voice, so that
he might not wake the King, we heard him singing of his love, who,
it seemed, was a flower of Andalucia. Yet just as he came up to us,
with his sword gleaming in the moonlight, he tripped over Sir Richard
Pendragon’s outstretched leg and measured his length upon the earth.
Before he could utter a cry, Sir Richard Pendragon had buried a knife
in his heart.

“The dead don’t speak,” he whispered in a soft voice. He wiped the
stains from his dagger upon the gaberdine of the man he had slain and
replaced it in his jerkin.

In the next moment he had disappeared. In the fashion of a hugeous
reptile he had crawled through the hole he had made into the interior
of the King’s pavilion. In the weary time of suspense that followed
upon his absence the Count of Nullepart and myself lay in the grass
listening to the beating of our hearts, and occasionally exchanging a
whisper to assure each other that we did not dream.

Beside us lay the dead soldier. At any instant his comrades were likely
to be here to seek him. Had they come, I fear there would have been
only one course open to us; although I think that both the Count of
Nullepart and myself, being peacefully given, breathed a prayer that we
should be spared the occasion to enter upon it.

It seemed an age, yet it could have been little more than five
minutes, ere this suspense was terminated; and then, without a sound
or a struggle from within the tent, a huge sack filled with a heavy
substance was pushed through the hole.

The sight of the sack gave me a thrill I cannot describe. Something
cold and sharp ran in my veins, and I nearly cried out. The next thing
of which I was aware was the smiling and sinister countenance of the
Englishman as he crept through the hole. Considering his bulk it was
surprising that he could squeeze so noiselessly through such a little
space. And in the same moment we heard a second sentinel coming round
the pavilion.

I could hardly tell what happened, it was all so quick and so horrible.
In a dull bewilderment I watched Sir Richard Pendragon creep through
the hole, and then as the oncoming sentinel caught a view of the sack
and the corpse of his fallen comrade he uttered a cry. But in so doing
he spoke for the last time. With incredible swiftness and dexterity the
unlucky wretch was slain.

“Now there is that third poor soul,” said the Englishman in a hushed
voice. “Do you abide here, good friends, for honest Dickon, while that
good mother’s son relieves the poor soldier of his necessity.”

Taking the dagger in his teeth, he began to crawl on his belly round
the corner of the pavilion. While he was gone upon this errand, which,
however ruthless in its character, was yet highly politic in its
intention, both the Count of Nullepart and myself derived satisfaction
from some tokens of animation which proceeded from the interior of the
bag.

“Mon Dieu!” said the Count of Nullepart, laughing softly, “is it
not well, my dear, that you and I are spared that abominable crime
of regicide, which all the best authors are agreed doth stink so
particularly in the nostrils of Heaven?”

“It is very well, most virtuous Count of Nullepart,” said I, fetching a
deep sigh of relief. Yet it was not given to me, reader, to embellish
this solemn occasion with any great depth of philosophy. Pearls of
wisdom have to be delved for in the inner nature; and at this moment,
notwithstanding that it was great with destiny, there was not time to
seek them, for hardly had I spoken ere Sir Richard Pendragon, standing
upon his two legs and strutting like a turkey, and bearing his dagger
in his right hand, came round the corner of the pavilion of the great
Castilian prince.

In his good pleasure he waved the weapon above his head and smiled
down upon the Count of Nullepart and myself in a manner of the gravest
amiability.

“Stand you now upon your ten toes, my dear and good brothers,” said he.
“Go ye not upon your bellies no more. Prithee walk no more like the
crawling serpent, which is the symbol of deceit and devious courses. My
dear and good brothers, I would have you proceed upon your flat feet
under our chaste lady the moon. For that third poor soul is delivered
of his need. ’A sweated as ’a felt the stroke, but by his eyes I could
read that his passing was worthy.”

Without more ado our formidable and ruthless captain laid his dagger
into his jerkin and hoisted the huge sack upon his mighty shoulders.
With incredibly swift strides, considering the burden that he bore, he
was soon in the shelter of the thicket. The Count of Nullepart and I
followed breathlessly, in a kind of amaze, and in a very little while
we had come to the mules, which were tethered a short way off the
winding track to Montesina.

It was discomposing to the sensibilities of men of birth such as the
Count of Nullepart and myself that the bag and its contents were flung
into the empty water-cart with somewhat more of violence than the
circumstances called for. But I cannot believe that at this moment it
was within our province to protest. Indeed, so far was the Count of
Nullepart--who in some respects was apt to baffle me as completely as
did Sir Richard Pendragon--from recording his displeasure that at first
he was unable to proceed on his journey in the wake of the water-cart
owing to the contortions of mirth into which he was thrown.

“Get up, little Neddies,” said the English giant, giving the mules a
lusty smack with the palm of his hand that started them at a jolt and a
rattle along the road. Then, as he ran beside them, he rested one hand
upon the bag and addressed its occupant in a humble voice.

“I trust your gracious Majesty rides pleasantly and in comfort,” he
said.

Now that we had this strange burden in our hands there was no immediate
need for secrecy. We made good progress with the water-cart. That
clumsy vehicle grunted and jolted along the deep-rutted track under
the light of the moon; and Sir Richard Pendragon, running beside it
cheerfully, in high good spirits, whistled lusty ditties and sang
ribald peasant songs in indifferent Castilian. When we passed a
sentinel or a camp-fire we exchanged friendly greetings, and asked
the hour of the night. Once or twice, it is true, we had to submit to
curses for disturbing the repose of some weary trooper. To these we
returned an appropriate pleasantry.

The moon was still our friend by the time we came near to the mighty
rock upon which was set the proud castle of Montesina. Here it was that
our leader deemed other courses to be necessary. We were still within
the lines of the King of Castile, for they extended to the base of the
rock; also the lower portion of the steep winding track that led to the
castle was in possession of his troops.

Now, one of our leader’s wisdom did not need to be told that a
water-cart would not be allowed to proceed to a garrison that was being
starved into surrender. Therefore, as soon as the frowning face of
the rock began to loom in our path, a new and very grave problem was
presented to his strategy. Yet it appeared that even of this matter he
had already had the wit to take cognisance.

Half a league before we reached the entrance to the narrow winding
road leading directly to the gates of the castle, upon which we must
have been challenged, Sir Richard Pendragon turned the heads of the
mules towards the meadows. Although these were invested by the King’s
soldiers, they appeared to be held very carelessly.

At the foot of the rocks was a wide and deep stream. When we had come
to its margin Sir Richard unharnessed the four mules and turned them
loose. They strayed away in all directions. He then removed the bag
from the water-cart, and with our aid proceeded to destroy that clumsy
and primitive vehicle. It was easy enough to lift the body from the
wheels and break it in pieces. These were cast fragment by fragment
into the stream, so that very soon the whole contrivance was completely
vanished from the ken of man.

We bore the bag and its strange burden along the banks of the stream,
until we were come presently to a goodly thicket of alder trees which
grew at the water’s edge. Taking care that we were not observed, we
carried our burden into this concealment; and then the redoubtable
Englishman, leaving us in this security to mount guard over our
treasure, and bidding us not to show our faces in the open against his
return, took his way towards the castle. It was his hope that, under
Providence, he might find his way into it by the further exercise of
those ingenious arts in which none excelled him.



CHAPTER XXXII

OF THE UNHAPPY SITUATION OF A GREAT PRINCE


THE Count of Nullepart and myself, left thus in our hiding-place and
in the charge of some highly valuable booty, were fain to hope very
devoutly that our enemies might not come upon us during the absence of
our leader.

When we fell to examine the bag, it was some satisfaction to our humane
feelings to observe that three holes had been cut in the top of it to
provide for the entrance of air. Even in a small matter it seemed that
Sir Richard Pendragon could use his ingenious mind to a purpose.

We had not been long in contemplation of the bag ere we had a natural
curiosity to view its contents, and, as I am willing to believe, a
humane desire, as far as the circumstances would permit, to ease them
of their pains. Therefore were we led to open the top of it, and to
expose that which lay within to the light of day. And, good reader, it
was with the liveliest trepidation that we did this; for it was hard to
say in what case the contents were like to reveal themselves.

To give the royal personage within greater ease of body, we propped the
sack against an alder tree; and then, with much concern, exposed his
head to the view. Our first sight of the King’s majesty was a much
dishevelled mass. A closer scrutiny showed the royal forehead to have
one or two slight contusions; the undressed hair was hanging limply all
about it; and a cloth tied with a cord had been thrust into the royal
mouth.

The Count of Nullepart severed the cord with his dagger and withdrew
the cloth, whereupon a pair of eyes came open in an empurpled face
which also had a somewhat contused and swollen appearance, and a young
prince was disclosed in the early prime of his manhood.

At first he gasped a little, since his situation had clearly been one
of great rigour, and his mouth and tongue were very sore. After a
moment of some little embarrassment on the side of both parties, the
King of Castile was good enough to address us. He did so with evident
difficulty, yet in the well-considered tones of one who uses few words
and those to a point.

“I do not know,” said the King of Castile, “to whom I am indebted for
this consideration, but I beg you to believe I am grateful for it.”

I suppose a famous and powerful prince could never have spoken from
quite such a plight, yet his words were ordered with a simple courtesy
that seemed entirely to efface the circumstances of the case. And
no sooner had the Count of Nullepart heard the regal tones of the
Castilian than first he bowed to the earth with all the grace of one
who has moved in courts, and then, quite suddenly, his addiction to
laughter overcame him. Clapping his slender hands to his ribs he began
to twist and writhe most immoderately.

King John of Castile, however, from the precincts of the sack
continued to sustain the glances of the Count of Nullepart and myself
with a simple and serious dignity that no amount of levity could abate;
and indeed so kingly in his bearing was the royal occupant, bound hand
and foot as he was and laid in a clump of alder trees, that I was fain
to remove my hat and bow low before him, if only to prove that at least
a hidalgo of the northern provinces was sensible of his condition.

The King’s majesty received my homage with a smile of great courtesy.
He then asked for a cup of water that he might moisten his lips.

“Sire,” I assured him, “I shall esteem it the greatest honour of my
existence to have the felicity of procuring you something to drink.”

Yet, happy as I was to render this service, it was in no sense easy
to accomplish, for there was never a drinking utensil for the King’s
convenience. I was fain to regret that we had the water-cart no longer
and the skins with which it was furnished; but at the time we cast them
away this present contingency had not been foreseen. Nevertheless, I
went to the stream and dipped my hat in it, and was able to return with
sufficient water to offer the King’s majesty. And I think I have never
seen a prince who was so thirsty. Yet doubtless his mouth and tongue
were in sore case.

The King, having thus refreshed himself, thanked me very gravely and
said, not at all harshly or unpleasantly, “I do not see that foreign
robber, that gigantic and formidable English thief. Yet more than
once in the night I heard his voice. Where is he? I would make him a
compliment on the fortunate issue of his cunning.”

Although the King smiled a little wryly as he said this, he still
preserved the serious dignity of his mien.

Before I could make Sir Richard Pendragon’s excuses for not being
present, as I felt sure, notwithstanding his quiddity, the English
giant, having the blood of kings under his doublet, would have wished
me to do, there came through the soft and sweet morning airs a mighty
commotion. There was shouting, the blowing of horns and trumpets, and
then came the loud bark of a culverin.

“It would appear, your majesty,” said the Count of Nullepart with his
inimitable smiling air, which proceeding from one who wore the garb of
a peasant seemed considerably to surprise the King, “that your worthy
and loyal followers have just discovered that the royal tent has a hole
in it.”

“It would appear so, my friend,” said the King imperturbably; “and they
are a little late in their discovery. Yet I am not sure that I must
blame them. It is my custom to allow myself a long eight hours for
repose.”

It was a source of regret to us that we had no food to offer our
illustrious captive. However, we set the royal personality in as
much ease as we could devise, and for this consideration he was not
ungrateful.

All through the long hours of the forenoon we had to keep a lively
vigilance. The whole Castilian army was astir for miles about,
searching for him who lay in durance in a bag in a grove of alders.
From our concealment we could observe small parties of the King’s
soldiers walking hither and thither about the meadows. Sometimes they
would approach quite near to us; and presently a body of them came down
with ropes to drag the bed of the stream.

It was then, with the most civil apologies in the world, that we were
fain to take up the cloth and the cord, and humbly to request the King
to permit us to do our offices. Yet at the same time we assured him
with every token of high respect that it would be our chief care to
place as little hurt upon him as would consist with our unhappy duty.

However, as we made to put this further indignity upon the King, his
calm fortitude seemed almost to give way. Turning his proud eyes upon
us, he said in a voice that touched me to the soul, “My friends, if you
will plunge a dagger into my heart, your names will be mentioned in
heaven.”

The Count of Nullepart and I conferred together.

“Upon my soul,” said the Count of Nullepart, “I think the royal flesh
should be a little respected.”

“I am of that opinion also,” said I; and then my Asturian prudence
jogged my elbow. “All the same, worshipful, we are laid in a sore
predicament. A live king is worth more than a dead one; and if we leave
his mouth unlocked, why, a single word might be our undoing.”

“As you say, my dear Don Miguel,” said the Count of Nullepart, “a
single word may undo us; but, by my faith, if one so humble as myself
may speak upon a high subject, I believe this to be a true prince, and
I, for one, do not fear to accept a parole of a true prince.”

Upon this speaking the blood of my ancestors mounted in my veins.

“Sir Count,” said I, “I fear not either. You shall offer a parole to
the King’s majesty.”

“The honour is yours, my dear Don Miguel.”

“I do myself the honour of yielding to your years and merit, most
worshipful Count of Nullepart.”

But, in spite of his protests, the Count of Nullepart persisted
smilingly in conferring the signal honour upon Miguel Jesus Maria de
Sarda y Boegas of offering a parole to his Majesty the King of Castile.

“An it graciously please your Majesty,” said I, “this grievous
restraint shall be spared you, if you will deign to give your kingly
word that neither by speech nor act will you reveal your gracious and
royal presence unto your loyal subjects should they fare hither in
quest of your gracious Majesty.”

The King did not hesitate to bestow his thanks upon us for our
favourable consideration, and duly pledged his sovereign word.

Now I know there are some who say, “Put not your faith in princes”;
but from this time onwards it has ever been a source of sincere
gratification that the Count of Nullepart and I thought well to reject
this adage. For, as you are to learn, the bare word of the King was
about to be tried in the severest possible way; and it must always be
written to his honour that, captive and enforced as he was, neither by
word nor deed did he do violence to his covenant.

It happened about midday, as we were viewing with a continual anxiety
the number and proximity of our foes, who were ever moving nearer and
nearer towards us, that we observed a party of them making for our
hiding-place. To escape their notice was impossible, as the clump of
alder trees was too meagre to cover us closely; and had we moved out
into the open meadows we must have been seen at once. Therefore in this
dangerous pass we had a free recourse to our five wits.

First, we crept down to the stream and plucked several armfuls of the
long rushes that grew there. Returning thence to our hiding-place we
turned over the bag so that its princely burden was laid on its belly,
with humble and profound apologies for the necessity, and having seated
ourselves upon our illustrious captive--with as little hardship to him
as we could contrive--proceeded to weave our rushes busily, as though
we were a couple of peasants whose trade was the making of baskets.

When the soldiers came near we were to be seen labouring assiduously,
while the bag upon which we were set was very fairly concealed. And
when we observed them to be moving towards us in a straight line, so
that further secrecy was out of the question, the Count of Nullepart
lifted up his voice in a merry lilt, lest it should appear that we had
a desire to shirk them.

His song seemed to startle them, for as they came up, and they numbered
near to a dozen, their captain asked us roughly what the devil we did
there.

“We are pursuing our trade, gracious excellency,” said the Count of
Nullepart.

“What the devil is your trade?” said the captain of the soldiers.

“Our trade is the making of baskets, gracious excellency,” said the
Count of Nullepart.

“Let us hope then that you make better baskets than you do music, you
loud rogues,” said the captain; “and what the devil have you in the
bundle there?”

No sooner had the captain of the soldiers made this inquiry than, to
our profound alarm, he gave the bag a prod with the point of his sword;
but the occupant thereof, upon whom we were seated, being in a very
sooth a royal king, kept himself very close.

“Oh, the bag, your excellency!” said the Count of Nullepart, feigning a
mighty carelessness. “The bag contains grasses all the way from Esparto
for the making of baskets.”

“Soh!” said the captain, laughing at that which he considered to be
the Count of Nullepart’s simplicity, “the bag contains grasses all the
way from Esparto, does it? I suppose it does not, by any chance,” and
the captain winked at his troopers, “contain the person of the King’s
majesty?”

“The person of the King’s majesty!” cried the Count of Nullepart,
opening his eyes very wide. “Oh no, gracious excellency! it contains
grasses all the way from Esparto. Perhaps your excellency would like to
see them?”

So finely did the Count of Nullepart feign bewilderment that the
soldiers began to laugh heartily at what they took for his simplicity.
As if to convince them of the truth of his statement he made a pretence
of trying to open the wrong end of the bag.

“You thick-witted clown,” said the captain, “we will take your word for
it that your precious bag holds not the King’s majesty.”

“Wherefore should it hold the King’s majesty, excellency?” asked the
Count of Nullepart in a very tolerable provincial Spanish.

“Have you not heard,” said the captain, “that his blessed majesty has
been murdered during the night, and three of his guard also; that
the royal body has been stolen, and that we are scouring all the
countryside to find it?”

“Gentle saints in heaven!” cried the Count of Nullepart, settling
himself more firmly upon the bag, while its royal occupant refrained
scrupulously from making the least motion.

“Why then, brother Juan,” said I to the Count of Nullepart, “surely
that is what all this blowing of trumpets and horns and beating of
drums and strange pillaloo that we have heard all the forenoon has
been concerned with. The gracious King murdered! His body stolen! Good
Virgin Mary, what an age in which to live!”

“God save us all!” said the Count of Nullepart. “The gracious King
murdered during the dark hours of the night! Did I not say to you,
brother Pedro, that something was bound to occur? For did I not remark
the sky last evening was blood red? And was I not so afeared at the
sight of it that I crossed myself three times?”

“Well, at all events,” said the captain of the soldiers contemptuously,
“the wisdom of you clodhoppers will not help us much. I have never seen
a pair of stupider gabies outside the madhouse at Zaragoza.”

“O excellency,” said the Count of Nullepart, counterfeiting the accent
of tears very skilfully, “I pray you not to say that! Our virtuous
mother was mightily proud of us in our infancy. We were bred together,
and right nobly did we suck. But was it a foray, do you suppose, from
the duke’s castle that killed the King’s majesty?”

“Likely enough, you zany,” said the captain. “Although for that matter
some there are who say it was the devil. For myself I can hardly credit
it.”

“Who is there else to compass such a deed?” said the Count of Nullepart
in a hushed voice.

“Yes, who else, brother Juan?” said I, solemnly removing my hat.

Divers of the King’s soldiers, witnessing our grave concern, appeared
to come to the same mind. Several of them followed our example.

“Well, talking of the Devil,” said the captain uneasily, “he was
certainly seen last night by many in this neighbourhood.”

“Good Virgin Mary!” exclaimed the Count of Nullepart, “how poor Juan
would have screamed had he seen his horns!”

“Yes, brother Juan, and poor Pedro also,” said I; and in the depth of
our feigning I felt myself to be turning pale.

“Some say he was without horns,” said the captain.

“Then it can’t have been the Devil, excellency,” said the Count of
Nullepart. “All the world knows the Devil by his horns and his tail.”

“It is said he came into our camp in the guise of a water-seller,” said
the captain. “And they say his voice was so dreadful that it could be
heard at a distance of two leagues. In stature he was near to three
yards; his face was so red that you could warm your hands at it, and
he himself was seen to boil a kettle by holding it next to his nose.”

“O Jesu!” said the Count of Nullepart. “Had Juan met him he must have
perished.”

“It is easy to understand the redness of the setting sun,” said I.

“That’s true enough,” said the captain of the soldiers, sighing
heavily. “The sun was certainly red now you come to mention it. How sad
it is that the King’s courtiers did not heed such an omen! The right
virtuous Duke of Manares is a wise and venerable minister; he at least
should have known what was toward. By my soul, we of Castile ought
never to forgive him! But come, boobies.” The captain, who owing to the
heat of his own imagination was now perspiring freely, turned to his
men, the majority of whom were standing bareheaded. “All the talking in
the world will not recover the corpse of our noble sovereign. Let us
help them to drag the stream. But I for one do not think we shall find
anything there, because any child will tell you that the Devil will
have nothing to do with cold water if he can possibly avoid it.”

Without further parley the captain and his soldiers relieved us of
their unwelcome presence. They went to join a company a short distance
off, that was dragging large hooks along the bed of the stream.

Thereupon we turned the bag over and placed the royal occupant in as
much ease of person as we could devise. We paid this true prince all
the homage of which we were capable, for could anything have been more
regal than his devotion to his simple word of honour? But his Majesty
could only reply to our humble yet heartfelt flatteries with a shake of
the head and a sombre smile.

“Oh, you fools, you fools, you fools!” the King exclaimed. “Did ever
monarch have such a parcel of boobies to serve him since the beginning
of the world?”

Indeed, the King seemed to be truly distressed. Less, however, for his
own indignities, which he could have terminated so easily had he not so
regarded his honour, but because his followers were so unskilful.

As we continued in our hiding-place we were constantly threatened with
further visits from the numerous parties of soldiers that were prowling
around. Happily they did not come up to us. As the day advanced the
Count of Nullepart declared he was growing hungry, which was a feeling
that I shared. I am afraid our captive must also have lain under this
affliction, but there was no remedy for our strait. To obtain food was
impossible without exposing ourselves to a danger we must not venture
to incur.

In the course of the afternoon, the King, whose comfort had been
consulted as far as ever the case would permit, and who had been plied
freely with water, for which he seemed grateful, fell asleep and so
forgot his pains. Thereupon the Count of Nullepart and myself were fain
to ask one another what had befallen our leader. And further, what must
be the ultimate issue of our extraordinary pass.

Certes, Sir Richard Pendragon’s entrance into the castle would be
fraught with every difficulty and with the gravest peril. First, this
broad and deep ditch beside which we lay would have to be crossed, and
the only bridge that spanned it was held by the troops of Castile.
Doubtless this bold man would take to the water rather than expose
himself to his foes, who would be extremely unwilling to let anyone
pass to the castle, no matter what the cunning of his pretexts.

Upon the assumption that Sir Richard Pendragon was able to swim the
foss, his next course would be to climb the steep rocks until he came
to the foot of these high and insurmountable walls that offered so
stern a barrier to the forces of Castile. In what manner he would
overcome these we could only conjecture. For the drawbridge to be
lowered it would be necessary for him to recommend himself to the
notice of those within the castle without attracting the attention
of the besiegers. Verily, the problem was a sore one. Yet so bold,
cunning, and ingenious was the English giant that no array of perils
was likely to daunt him. However, as we awaited events which we hardly
dared to believe could come to pass, we were heartened by the knowledge
of a singular and masterful genius. Had it at last met its overthrow?
To such a question we had not the courage to foretell the answer.



CHAPTER XXXIII

A SORTIE FROM THE CASTLE


AS evening came on these speculations grew more grave. It was not
pleasant to think of spending the night in the open meadow. And we were
very hungry. There was also our captive to consider. Ease his bonds as
we might, and render to him all the consideration that was within our
power, he was yet in sore case.

Towards sundown, while we were still wondering in what sort we could
bear the rigours to which we were like to be exposed, a furious clamour
was heard proceeding from the direction of the castle. Far and away the
meadows had suddenly begun to echo with the beating of drums and the
call to arms. We came out of our hiding-place, and going forth into the
open fields, were able to discern that the drawbridge of the castle had
been lowered and that a body of mounted soldiers from the garrison was
making a foray.

The purport of this was so plain to us that we could have cast our hats
into the air for joy. It was clear that the English giant had found his
way within those four walls, and now by a bold raid was about to bring
us and our prize also within them.

Even as we stood at gaze, we thought we could detect far away through
the mists of the evening the plumed bonnets of madam’s defenders.
Close by us straggling companies of the King’s soldiery, unconnected
twos and threes, were running in no sort of order towards the lower
bridge. This was but carelessly held by the arms of Castile, and now
that an assault was to be delivered upon it, it was little likely
to be repelled. Our enemies, having lost their King, seemed to lack
discipline and leadership; and we did not doubt that the bold and
masterful Sir Richard Pendragon, swollen with great achievement as he
was, and a most cunning and accomplished warrior, would prevail in his
design.

Such proved to be the case. We had not long to abide the issue. The
oncoming darkness had not time to envelop us ere the meadows began
to shake under a mighty thunder of hoofs; and Sir Richard Pendragon,
mounted upon a splendid war-horse, the choicest in the stable of our
mistress, and accompanied by a body of horsemen riding in admirable
close order, came straight for our little clump of alder trees.

“A Pendragon! A Pendragon!” arose the great baying voice of our
formidable captain. His bare sword, seeking occupation, cut at the tall
grasses as he rode through them.

“Where are you, you good souls?” he cried as he drew rein before the
place in which we held the King.

He needed not to call again, for the Count of Nullepart and I came out
at once, carrying our royal prize, which, for the reason that it was
habited in a night-gown only, was still covered by the bag. Two led
horses had been brought for our use; and Sir Richard Pendragon had the
captive lifted on to the front of his own saddle. The chief part of
the design being then accomplished, the whole company galloped back
to the bridge, which was no longer held by the arms of Castile. Our
enemies had been beaten off with some loss by this sudden and totally
unexpected foray.

No sooner had we crossed this bridge and had come again into safety,
with the upper path leading to the drawbridge lying before us free
of all our foes, than our formidable leader declared that not the
capture of the King alone would content him. He had the royal prisoner
transferred from his own saddle to that of the Count of Nullepart; and
then he bade us both take the captive behind the walls of the castle
into security, whilst he with a following of two hundred horsemen would
proceed to inflict a further stroke upon the disorganized army in the
plain below.

The Count of Nullepart and myself were loth to assent to this proposal.
For our blood being roused by this martial brilliancy, we also could
have wished to go forward upon this enterprise. Yet it is the business
of a soldier to obey his commander, and Sir Richard Pendragon had come
to stand towards us in that relation. Besides, it was necessary that
responsible persons should hold the custody of the royal captive.

Regretfully, therefore, we continued along the upper path with our
great prize. And Sir Richard Pendragon riding down the hill, we could
hear him marshalling with voice and with trumpet the two hundred
horsemen that were gathered about the lower bridge to await his
commands. And the last thing we heard of him as we took a turn in the
path was an admonishment of these troopers in his mighty voice upon
their discipline. With his own right hand he threatened to cut down
each mother’s son that dared to forsake his duty for private rapine.

“By my soul,” said the Count of Nullepart, laughing softly, “I believe
that mad English fellow is the first captain of the age.”



CHAPTER XXXIV

OF MADAM’S RENCOUNTER WITH THE FROWARD PRINCE


IT was with no little relief, and yet with curiosity, that we crossed
the drawbridge and entered the precincts of the castle. By now it was
dark, but the light of the stars shed their soft lustre upon the sombre
walls and the eager groups of soldiers that awaited us. It was clear
that our exploit had become known in the castle, for no sooner had we
crossed the threshold with our royal burden than loud cries of triumph
were proclaimed from a hundred throats.

The first to greet us was Don Luiz, the opprobrious fat man. He was
accompanied by a number of persons bearing lanterns. By their light
we were able to remark that although the dignity of Don Luiz was now
waxing so great that it would seem that he alone was the author of this
fortunate pass, his bulk was yet sensibly diminished by the rigours it
had recently sustained.

It was not easy for us to forbear from open laughter at the airs the
fat man gave himself, the more especially when we recollected the
indignities to which so lately he had been subjected.

“It will please the noble countess,” said he, “to give an audience
to the gracious King after he has taken some little refreshment and
otherwise eased the royal personality of those discomforts that have
recently encompassed it.”

We crossed the outer patio and dismounted before the doors of the
castle. The Count of Nullepart and I lifted the King from the saddle.
Yet no sooner had we done this than we made the discovery that the
royal prisoner had suffered so sorely in his durance that by now he was
fallen insensible.

Thereupon we bore the unfortunate prince into an apartment that had
been set for his reception. Meats and wine were laid in it, also
burning faggots and lighted candles. With our own hands we chafed the
limbs of the King, and it gave us some concern to find, so close had
his bonds been drawn, that in places the skin had been broken.

Having administered a powerful cordial to the King, having invested
his nakedness in a furred gown and slippers, and having placed him in
cushions next to the warmth, he was presently restored to something of
his true mind. Thereupon we dressed him in the choicest silk raiment
that could be found to fit him, and this was chiefly from the duke’s
own wardrobe.

The King then partook of food and wine, of which he could never have
been in such sore need. More than twenty hours had passed since the
Count of Nullepart and I had eaten, but before assuaging our necessity
we were able to do ourselves the honour of ministering to the royal
wants.

By these means the blood was restored to the King’s countenance and
animation to his eyes, and it was plain to see that rumour had not
belied this ambitious prince. His features were those of an eagle,
with a noble fire in the glance and a proud disdain. And in spite of
his recent distresses and this present pass, that must have irked him
to the soul, he bore himself most scrupulously in accordance with his
lineage. With the frank courtesy of the high-born, he thanked the Count
of Nullepart and myself for our services; and, with a somewhat rueful
smile, he was good enough to say that had it been known to him that his
aged Uncle Roldan was able to gather such skilful minds about him, he
would have conducted his campaign with a less degree of levity.

The King then asked of the English robber. He asked whether we were
the countrymen and good friends of that formidable adventurer. And
when we had answered the King that although we were far from being the
countrymen of the redoubtable Sir Richard Pendragon, yet were his good
servants in all that he pleased to command us, the King laughed.

“Ods blood!” said the King, “that English thief is the most
accomplished villain in Spain. I wonder he did not cut my throat while
he was upon his work; yet doubtless the rascal is wise to bait his hook
with a live fish.”

“By your gracious leave and forgiveness, sire,” said the Count of
Nullepart, in his charming manner, “doubtless he was fain to believe
that a bag full of live royalty is of better account when it comes to
the terms of a treaty than a bag full of dead bones.”

“Yes, sir,” said the King, with sombre eyes, “that was doubtless his
argument.”

When the King had supped he reposed for an hour; and in that period
the Count of Nullepart and I were able to doff our peasants’ disguise
and to satisfy our hunger. Then came Don Luiz to inform us that his
lordship’s grace and the Countess Sylvia would receive the royal
prisoner.

The King’s limbs were still so sore and constrained that he could
not walk without a great deal of assistance. Thus he entered the
audience-chamber leaning heavily upon the Count of Nullepart and myself.

We found our mistress seated, in the fashion of a royal queen, upon the
daïs at the end of the apartment. By her side, yet in a sensibly lower
place, was his lordship’s grace, who was fast asleep with a backgammon
board before him. He had been engaged in a game with the dwarf, who was
now mumping and mowing from a corner, for he durst not show himself
much to the Lady Sylvia.

In my travels through all parts of the world I have looked much upon
female beauty. My gaze has been ensnared by the fair of many lands, yet
never, I think, has it beheld a figure to compare with that of noble
fire and queenly splendour that now greeted us.

“I give you no greeting, John of Castile,” she said in her clear
speech, that was so loud and ringing. “I make you no service, infamous
cousin. I would not soil my lips with your name, you bloody and
covetous villain, had they not long been accustomed to bespeak dogs and
horses. But we would have you kneel for pardon, treacherous caitiff,
whose blood smokes black in your heart like that of the evil fiend. For
it is our intention, you paltry knave, first to cut off your ears, as
we would those of a cheat and a pickpocket; and then we will devise in
what further manner to deal with one who would rob his poor relations.”

To this terrific speech that was delivered with an insolent scorn that
could not have been surpassed, the King of Castile replied with a
gesture of most kingly disdain. And I think the little Countess Sylvia,
meeting the full power of that sombre and fearless glance, was in some
measure given to pause. She had not looked for it that an enemy brought
captive into her hands should venture thus to outface the full torrent
of her fury.

A minute of silence passed, in which each of these creatures exchanged
their regal gestures. The meeting of their disdainful eyes was like
that of a pair of true blades. It was as though each must overbear the
other in the shock of their contention.

“It is my intention to ask no pardon, madam,” said the King composedly.
“I am a young man, but I am learned enough to ask pardon of none. I do
not fear death.”

“You do not fear death, base thief and murderer that you are!” said
the Countess Sylvia, while her eyes spat at him. “Why should you fear
death, you unready slave, when death shall come to you as the softest
clemency of heaven?”

“Whatever indignity you are pleased to place upon this flesh, madam,”
said the King coldly, “it will be less than its merit for having
permitted itself to fall into such hands.”

At this speech, and the demeanour by which it was accompanied, the
Countess Sylvia quivered all over with passion; and had the King been
near to her, and a sword been ready to her hand, I think he had been
spared that which was to befall him, for there and then he must have
breathed his last.

You will not need to be told, gentle reader, that while these passages
were toward, the Count of Nullepart and I preserved a demeanour of the
gravest propriety. Yet, could we have forgotten that the actors in this
play were two of the most considerable persons of their age, and that
their interview was like to have an extremely tragic issue, I think we
must have yielded a little to mirth. For could anything have been more
wanton than the addresses they paid to one another when the life of
each might be said to depend on the other’s clemency.

The Countess Sylvia had only to speak the word for the life of the
King to be forfeit; while on his part, whether he lived or whether he
perished, he was so sure of her castle falling into the hands of his
soldiers, for he was a most powerful prince, and his resources were
very great, that it was equally clear that her life also was in his
power.

Now, this side of the matter was very plain to the Count of Nullepart.
And in the very height of their bitter enmity he sought to render it
to his mistress. After the most searching abuse to which the tongue
of woman was ever applied had been met by the most open contempt--not
very princely bearing on the side of either, yet the sublimity of
their anger seemed to make it so--they were brought to such a pass
that rage tied up their very mouths, so that they were fain to conduct
their warfare with their eyes. Then it was, after they had been thus
outfacing one another for I know not how long a period, that the Count
of Nullepart, greatly daring, made the first of his recommendations to
madam. In his subtlest manner he disclosed to her the case in which she
stood.

“Peace, Sir Count,” she said scornfully. “You are an honest good
fellow, and you have well served the grace of his lordship, but you
must know I can make no abatement of my resolve. The bloody-minded
prince shall perish like a felon. He shall suffer every rigour that can
be devised by the outraged gentle mind and nature of a daughter. It is
not for naught that this uncivil wolf of the forest is come into the
sheep-fold.”

“I pray you, madam,” said the Count of Nullepart, “graciously to
permit me to remind you that, should the life of the King’s majesty be
forfeit, his great host will raze your father’s castle to the earth.
And personally I have no doubt that if a hair of this prince’s head
sustains an injury, you and all its other contents will be put to the
sword.”

“You speak truly, Sirrah Count,” said madam. “But I myself will raze
this castle to the earth, and all of us who are within it shall die
upon our swords.”

With his rare address the Count of Nullepart continued long to urge the
more humane aspect of the matter, but the heart of his mistress was not
to be moved. It was in vain that he exerted all those powers of wise
enchantment in the use of which he was without a peer. His entreaties
had no happier result than that the Countess Sylvia consented to
postpone her measures upon the royal person of Castile against the
return of her redoubtable captain, Sir Richard Pendragon, the English
barbarian robber, than whom this unlucky prince had no more relentless
and bitter foe.

“I am indeed between the vulture and the kite,” said the King with
a wry smile, while we were leading him away from this unfortunate
audience. “My amiable, gentle, and dove-like cousin is desirous to
cut off my ears, and proposes to slay me an inch at a time. I shall
therefore be curious to learn the measures that are proposed by my
friend of England. He will, doubtless, ordain that I am cooked in a
pot.”

We conducted the royal captive to the apartment in which he had supped.
In this comfortable place we laid him that he might abide the return
of not the least of his enemies. In so doing, however, we ventured to
disobey the explicit will of our mistress. As we had left her presence
she had enjoined us strictly that “the vile spawn of darkness be thrown
among rats into the deepest and slimiest of the dungeons underground.”

The King slept soundly after his late fatigues, but there was no repose
that night for any others within the castle. The minds of all, from
that of madam herself to that of the meanest scullion, were filled by a
single theme. What had befallen Sir Richard Pendragon?

Already the exploits of the English giant had given to his name and
personality something of a supernatural cast. Nor was this merely the
view of the commonalty; it was shared by our mistress and the highly
sagacious Count of Nullepart. Under the direction of such a leader we
knew that great haps were toward in the darkness. And so lively and
profound were our speculations of their nature, that excitement and
anxiety reigned through all the long hours of the night.



CHAPTER XXXV

OF SIR RICHARD PENDRAGON’S RETURN


THE dawn came, yet Sir Richard Pendragon came not. I then made a
proposal to our mistress, who had spent the night like a veritable
captain walking upon her battlements. It was that I should be permitted
to sally out into the plain with the hundred men remaining in our
hands, in order that I might seek for our good friends, and if they
were in need of succour to bear it to them.

To this proposal madam assented. The Count of Nullepart, however, was
greatly averse from it. He declared it to be the height of impolicy
to withdraw from the castle the whole of its defence. It was in vain
that I pointed out that as far as the eye could scan none of our enemy
was visible. It would seem that the Castilian host had withdrawn in
the night. Yet, greatly to my chagrin, it was given to the Count of
Nullepart to prevail in his contention. It was doubtless due to the
weight of his years that madam saw fit to revoke her permission.

The hours passed, however, and still Sir Richard Pendragon came not.
Then it was that some sort of consternation began to fall upon us. Yet,
as our high hopes began to wane a little, and anxious faces were to be
seen on every hand, the Countess Sylvia refused stoutly to believe
that misfortune had overtaken her arms.

Never could a demeanour have been more steadfast than hers in the face
of an ever-growing dismay. All through the blazing heat of the forenoon
the Count of Nullepart and I remained with her upon the battlements,
regarding that fair and wide-stretching plain below. Full many leagues
were unrolled before us. Here were the dotted points of the spires and
clustered houses of the imperial city of Toledo; there was the flashing
silver ribbon of the Tagus curling in and out among the hills and
meadows. Yet, strain our eyes as we might, there was never a sign of
the Castilian host, nor of the redoubtable Sir Richard Pendragon and
his mounted company.

In the face of this mystery we knew not what to believe. A great army
had vanished from before our eyes. The white tents, hundreds in number,
that were spread over the broad plain, were still exposed to the glare
of the pitiless sun, yet all that day not a solitary soldier was to be
seen about them. Such a remarkable circumstance encouraged even stout
minds to attribute the whole matter to the exercise of the dark powers.
For some were only too ready to believe that they were wielded by the
Englishman. Indeed, it was recalled by many that he had more than once
been heard to confess himself as a wizard.

Night fell again, yet still Sir Richard Pendragon came not. And as
far as the most distant horizon no sign of an armed host was visible.
The Countess Sylvia refused her food that evening, and summoned the
chaplain of his lordship’s grace, a holy father of the Cistercians.
She spent the night upon her knees in the chapel.

When the morning dawned she came out again to the battlements to resume
her watch. Although her cheeks were wan and her looks were sad, they
had lost nothing of their noble ardour. It seemed that foreboding
had fallen upon her. And then in the lowest depths of her distress,
she summoned the Count of Nullepart to her harshly, and bade him go
immediately and cut off the ears of the spawn of darkness.

It was in vain that the Count of Nullepart urged his mistress to
relent. Yet I must tell you, good reader, that in her present humour he
durst not enforce her too much, lest he also were shorn. So, finding
that his reluctance did but inflame her instancy, he had no other
course save to go forth to obey.

The King of Castile was indeed a bitter enemy, and he had the name of a
merciless prince. Therefore in the fortunes of war he was entitled to
small consideration, yet the worshipful Count of Nullepart, as tardily
enough he went forth to do the bidding of his mistress, was yet a
person of civility and of a philosophical enlightenment which was only
possible to one of the foremost minds of the age. Thus, upon taking
counsel with myself upon the subject, the worshipful Count of Nullepart
had recourse to a subterfuge, which, however, must have placed his own
ears, if not his life, in jeopardy. Instead of obeying this severe
ordination, he went and hid himself against the time when madam should
have forgot her resolve.

How far this expedient served the Count of Nullepart will presently be
shown. At noon, as madam still watched from the battlements, refusing
all food, and suffering none to come near her, she summoned the Count
of Nullepart again. As he was not to be found, she had me brought to
her, and with much sternness bade me “go immediately and cut off the
head of the bloody-minded prince.”

Now, though the peril of the act was so great, I was fully determined
to follow the course I had enjoined upon the Count of Nullepart. But
suddenly the Countess Sylvia uttered a shrill cry, and then it was seen
she had already ceased to regard her recent order.

Calling me back to her side, she bade me look out over the battlements,
and tell her what I saw. And that which I had to inform her was that a
mounted company was approaching through the plain.

For more than an hour we stood at gaze, seeking to discern who this
might be. Howbeit, so slowly, and, as it seemed, so wearily, did the
cavalcade come towards us, that at the end of that period it appeared
hardly to have made a league. Yet, as we stood with our eyes forever
strained upon the bright sunlight, and with I know not what wild
speculations in our brains, I think I never saw our noble mistress with
such a signal beauty in her mien.

None dared speak to her as the tardy minutes passed. At gaze upon the
topmost pinnacle of the conning-tower, with her small and slender
woman’s form tense as an arrow upon a bow, so that it seemed to poise
itself midway between the green plain and the blue sky, all the ardour
of her soul seemed to merge in her glance. It was as though her proud
heart was overmounted in the yearning for victory.

It was from the lips of our mistress, and by the agency of her two
thought-wingèd eyes, that the glad news proclaimed itself.

“’Tis he,” she said softly; “’tis him of England. It is Sirrah Red
Dragon, the sweet giant, the valiant foreigner!”

As our mistress spoke these words, she placed her small white hand on
my sleeve that was near to her, and it was like that of a small child
that is fit only to grasp a toy. Yet when I felt the hot flame of
passion that was burning in it, and its gentle trembling that was like
the autumn willow, the hot blood of my youth surmounted me, and had I
dared--and yet, reader, I must declare to you that I dared not--I would
have paid half the course of nature to enfold this regal form to my
breast.

I was waked from the trance of my desire by a profound sigh. It was of
a melodious yet half mirthful bitterness. Without turning about I knew
it to proceed from the Count of Nullepart. Yet, such was its delicacy
that it lured me to turn my eyes to meet his own. And as they came
together, we found within the gaze of one another the high yearning of
our souls an hundred times reflected.

“Ah, my dear friend,” he lisped in the gentle and charming melody of
his speech, which yet could not still the tumult of my soul, “have you
forgot the Princess, she whom we serve yet see not, she whom we clasp
yet cannot retain?”

“I curse that English robber!” I hissed in his ears. “I ask you, Sir
Count, why does not the devil claim his own?”

“The better to plague an honest community, my dear friend,” said the
Count of Nullepart, with a soft laugh. “Yet, on his part, this gigantic
and monstrous Maximus Homo is a profligate, happy and careless son of
the earth, who forever disdains the caresses that our Princess Fortune
casts upon him. To her he is the prince who mocks her with the valiant
insolency of his prodigal nature.”

And, as if to show that the worshipful Count of Nullepart had truly
rendered his philosophy, at this moment a high yearning cry, like that
of a soul in durance, was proclaimed in our ears. And we saw a crystal
tear within each of the orbs of our mistress, within each of those orbs
that were wont to look proud at the sun.



CHAPTER XXXVI

OF SOLPESIUS MUS, THE CAPTAIN-GENERAL OF THE JOGALONES


MADAM sat in council to receive Sir Richard Pendragon, her valiant
captain. The afternoon sky burst through the western windows of the
great chamber in the glory of crimson and gold. It clothed in the frank
nobility of heaven the form of our mistress, seated in her jewels
and in her robes of state upon the daïs, with none near to her save
his lordship’s grace, who slept lustily. When the doors were flung
back her eyes sparkled like the beautiful Tagus when its fair face
is all dimpled in smiling to the princely sun, and her proud lips
were wide-parted as with the entranced speech of the heart’s poetry.
A fanfare was sounded upon trumpets; and then Sir Richard Pendragon,
leading nine captive noblemen, some with silver hairs, with their hands
bound and halters about their necks, came into the presence of his
mistress.

“I give you greeting, Sirrah Red Dragon,” said the Countess Sylvia, in
speech of clear and round simplicity. “You are a true captain. You have
done well.”

With the gesture of a queen she extended her beautiful hand.

“I kiss your feet, madam and ladyship,” said the English giant,
sweeping off his bonnet, and his was the gesture of princes.

As he knelt to her, and touched the small hand that was all lily-white
delicacy with his own enormous paw that was begrimed with travel and
foul with the use of the sword, my two eyes sought the spot in which
to place the poniard between his mighty shoulders. Yet was I fain to
dismiss this thought as inconsistent with the sangre azul of my nation.

For the English giant had done well. Like a great and redoubtable
captain--and some there were to believe that this product of a
barbarous land was the first of his age--he had seized the hour when
panic had descended upon the Castilian host. When they were as sheep
without a shepherd, owing to their belief that the Prince of Darkness
had spirited away the father of the flock, he had fallen upon them
under the cover of night. He had dealt with them ruthlessly, killing
many, despoiling their treasuries, abusing their arms, pursuing them
off the plains full many a league, and dispersing a proud army to the
four winds of God.

All this had the Englishman performed under the cover of night, at the
instance of no more than two hundred well-mounted men. So had their
fears at the mysterious loss of their king wrought upon the soldiers
of the army of Castile that they had fled hot-foot in all directions
before the onfall of Sir Richard Pendragon. For they were fain to
believe that the Prince of Darkness had returned to claim them as well
as their royal master.

In the very act of pursuit the Englishman had indulged his masterful
skill to the full. He had singled out those of our foes it would
profit him best to destroy. He had cut down all of the King’s captains
and ministers he could come at, overriding them full many a league, yet
sparing nine of the foremost in order that their presence in captivity
might pleasure our mistress and promote the terms of the peace.

In this also Sir Richard Pendragon had counted well. The presence
of these nine noble Castilians with halters about their necks gave
credence to the wonderful story that he had to tell. When his great
exploit had been unfolded in its fulness, it appeared that the power
of Castile was broken. And when madam understood so much, and further,
that her great captain had not only delivered her of famine and the
sword, but had also returned with great loot of treasure, she said
with a proud yet gentle instancy that her good Sirrah Red Dragon might
command her anything.

Now, in the fire of that imperious yet chaste and lovely glance the
Count of Nullepart and myself read the invitation for which our veins
were hungry. Yet I think it must be allowed to the Count of Nullepart
that he had the gift of prophecy. For as the Countess Sylvia again
extended her slender fingers that were all lily-white daintiness, the
English barbarian robber, as he bore them to his bearded chops in his
bloodstained gripe, caused the very roof to re-echo with his laughter.

“By my good mother’s soul!” he roared, “if it were not that old honest
Dickon durst not marry out of the English nobility, sweet madam and
ladyship, you might easily have the best husband in Spain.”

Again the eyes of the Countess Sylvia sparkled like the beautiful
Tagus.

“What words are these, Sirrah Red Dragon?” said she with a proud
instancy. “Do you reject the gracious dignity of a woman’s heart? Is
it, Sirrah Red Dragon, that you disdain the royal gratitude of an
hundred descents?”

“It is that I neither disdain nor reject them, madam,” said the English
giant, speaking as though his soul was an empire, yet with a whimsical
humour in his great red eyes. “But this old jack bully must reck his
rede, as we English say. He can never marry, good madam and ladyship,
although there is the blood of kings under his doublet. He must reck
his rede. He is the offspring of fantasy; he was born in a mild and
sweet season under the bright moon. He is of the seed of Merlin; the
sap of Arthur is in his bones; and although he had a good mother, and
he is the natural son of Henry Plantagenet, yet from his natal hour
a bend sinister hath twisted his sweet soul. Therefore he can wed no
woman, dear little Spanish butterfly, for, let me whisper it in thy
pretty ears, that good Dickon, honest fellow, is none other than the
veritable Solpesius Mus, the Captain-General of the Jogalones.”

Having thus spoke our mistress in this strange mad wise, the English
giant, for all the world as though his soul was a wide dominion, bent
to her his grinning visage and bussed her soundly upon the lips in the
presence of the whole company. No sooner had she suffered this bold
caress than she withdrew her face swiftly, as though it had been stung
by the venom of bees. Her cheek was like a crimson flower and her eyes
brimmed with their passionate tears.

“Sirrah giant,” said this delectable thing, as if she too had a wide
dominion in her soul, “I would have the whole of thee, the whole of thy
great capacity and thy wide-wingèd fantasy, or I would have thee not at
all.”

“Alack, alack!” said the Englishman with a whimsical sigh, “that poor
Dickon, old honest fellow, should be none other than the veritable
Solpesius Mus, the Captain-General of the Jogalones!”

And in my ears came the soft enchanting laughter of the worshipful
Count of Nullepart.



CHAPTER XXXVII

OF THE RIGOURS TO BE SUFFERED BY THE INFAMOUS KING


THE proud tears were still in the eyes of our mistress, when she looked
all about her swiftly with the features of a hawk. In ringing tones
she cried, “Bring forth the spawn of darkness. We will now arrange his
fate.”

When the Count of Nullepart and myself made to obey this command, as
you will believe, gentle reader, we had grave concern lest madam should
observe the presence of the captive’s ears. And such was her present
humour that I think we did well to have apprehension of the penalty
that might overtake us. Greatly doubtful, we led forth the Castilian
from his durance and brought him into the room.

The King of Castile entered the presence of his victorious adversaries
with a calm and noble smile. Yet no sooner did his gaze fall upon the
grey-bearded noblemen with halters about their necks than his eyes
drooped, and a great anguish seemed to cloud them.

The relentless eyes of madam were fixed upon her foe.

“Dost thou see them, bloody-minded one?” said she. “These old bears
shall have the fangs drawn out of their chaps so that they shall bite
no more.”

Then, like a veritable sovereign princess, she turned to Sir Richard
Pendragon, to whom all the success of her arms was due.

“Avise us, Sirrah Red Dragon. Avise us in what manner we shall cast out
these several parcels of beastliness that encumber the earth.”

“By our lady!” said the English giant, rubbing the palm of one hand
slowly round that of the other, “if that is not my honest gossip, John
Castilian, I am a poor mad soul! English Richard gives a greeting to
you, John Castilian, a greeting to your most excellent King’s majesty.”

Upon this speaking, Sir Richard Pendragon was like to crack his head on
the ground with his lowly obeisance.

Although the King of Castile seemed all broken by the disaster that had
overtaken his arms, upon hearing the voice of Sir Richard Pendragon he
looked up and received his mockery with an unflinching glance.

“Foreign robber,” he said simply, “you have borne yourself as a true
captain. I make you my service. And as the life of myself and the lives
of my honourable friends are forfeit to your cunning I hope that they
may profit you.”

These words, spoken only as a King could deliver them, brought a sort
of whimsical pity to the mocking face of the English barbarian.

“Dost thou remember, John Castilian,” he said, with that softness
which the Count of Nullepart and I knew was wont to accompany his most
ferocious designs, “that summer’s morning a twelvemonth since, when
thou flungest one of a gentle and kindly nurture, a good mother’s son,
into the deepest dungeon of your Spanish palace, and chained him by
the leg, with foul straws for his pillow, and with lean rats and large
beetles for his only familiar company?”

“Yes, foreign robber, I remember it to my sorrow,” said the King of
Castile coldly. “And had I broke you upon the wheel and thrown your
corpse to the dogs a day before my reckoning, I should not now be
mourning for not having done so.”

“John Castilian,” said the Englishman, “you speak in the wise of
an unfortunate famous ancestor of mine own. He was called Sir
Procrastinatus, owing to the unlucky habit of his mind that he
continually put off till the morrow that which he should have done the
day; a habit that in the process of nature grew upon the unlucky wight
in such a measure that upon the last day of his life he failed to die
until after his friends had buried him. Can it be, John Castilian, that
yourself is a victim to a like preoccupancy? For I understand from
madam’s gracious ladyship that your trench hath been dug the last three
days in the kitchen midden.”

“No, no, Sirrah Red Dragon, that is not so,” said madam ruthlessly.
“The spawn of darkness is entitled to no burial. We will hang it upon a
fork on the outer barbican to poison the crows and the vultures and the
unclean fowls of the air.”

“A thousand pardons, ladyship,” said Sir Richard Pendragon. “It appears
I am the victim of a misinformation.”

“Do you avise us, Sirrah Red Dragon, so that the bloody-minded prince
shall begin his dying immediately. But we would have him take not less
than one-and-twenty days to the consummation of it, for we would have
him drain the dregs of the cup he hath prepared for others.”

It was here, however, that Sir Richard Pendragon began to stroke his
beard. Mad he was, and whimsical, yet beyond all things he had a mind
for affairs. Therefore he was fain to speak aside with the Count of
Nullepart and myself.

“By my troth,” he said, “it would be a happy deliverance of a bad man
if John Castilian was hung on the gate with a spike through his neck.
But grievously do I doubt me of the wisdom of the policy. We are but
three hundred men-at-arms, and Castile is a broad dominion. If we put
out the life of this prince, the queen-mother will gather new forces
and come again to the gate. And honest Dickon is fain to observe that
the old bitch wolf will be found with a longer tooth than the whelp.”

That this was the voice of wisdom we had no thought to deny. Therefore
it behoved us to spread the light of statecraft before our mistress.
Yet, as you will readily believe, such a task was no light one. Still,
accomplished it must be, although he who would turn a woman aside from
her vengeance may be said to take his life in his hand.

Sir Richard Pendragon, however, was the last man in the world to blench
before the face of danger. And so, with a most humble civility that
rendered the sinister laughter of his eyes the more formidable, he
addressed the Countess Sylvia.

“Madam,” said he, “was old honest Dickon dreaming o’ nights when he
heard the grace of your ladyship’s nobility declare that he might
command her anything?”

The fair damask cheek of our mistress grew again like that of a
carnation; again were her eyes filled with proud shining.

“You heard aright, Sirrah Red Dragon,” she said softly. “It is my
desire that you command me anything.”

“Then old honest Dickon, a good fellow, kisses your small feet and
makes you a leg, peerless rose of the south, and he asks for the life
of John Castilian.”

The bosom of our mistress heaved rebelliously. Tears of mortified
caprice crept into her eyes. With contempt and bitterness she cast a
glance at the King, who stood in mournful converse with his ministers.
She then confronted her great captain.

“Sirrah Red Dragon,” she said in accents that were choked by a rage of
tears, “do you take the life of the spawn of darkness. Use it as you
will, sirrah. It was you that gave it to me; it is meet that you should
receive it back again. I do not ask upon what pretext you would hold
it; but--but, sirrah,” and her whole form quivered strangely, “I do
ask--I do ask, sirrah, is this the whole of your good pleasure?”

Yet no sooner had she spoke those last unlucky words, and, as it were,
laid bare her proud bosom, than she averted her beautiful cheeks that
were like a scarlet rose, and in the sudden wild rage of her own
weakness, that she whom kings must woo in vain had come herself to woo,
she hid her eyes.

“Nay, by the soul of a nice mother,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, “this
is but a moiety of what her good son would ask you. Having received
the life of John Castilian, he would ask your permission, madam, that
in some sort he may punish him, for you need not to be told that his
crimes are many and abominable.”

“As you say, Sirrah Red Dragon, his crimes are many and abominable,”
said the Countess Sylvia. “I would indeed have you punish him. I would
have you punish him with all possible rigour.”

Speaking thus, she gazed at the unfortunate prince with a power of
resentment that he, who was true to his degree, met with a calm
indifferency.

“All possible rigour,” said Sir Richard Pendragon softly, “is indeed
the best part of the design of your old honest servant. And to that
end, madam, I would ask to deliver John Castilian to you again in order
that you may bestow this dreadful rigor upon him.”

“It is well, Sirrah Red Dragon,” said his mistress. “In this you are
wise. We shall know in what sort to visit the spawn of darkness and
bloody-minded prince.”

“And yet, madam,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, “by the grace of your
ladyship is it not left to old honest Dickon to nominate the weapons of
your severity?”

“Pray do so, Sirrah Red Dragon,” said madam with a courteous
indulgence. “But perhaps you will not omit to weigh the efficacy upon
delicate flesh of hot sharp-pointed nails? And also of hard pieces of
rock upon the sensitive limb bones?”

“Nay, madam,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, “a good mother’s son forgets
not the efficacy of these honest things; yet, under the favour of your
ladyship, if he is minded to speak out of his ripe observation, this
elderly seeker after virtue would venture to recommend an even more
dreadful rigour, a rigour even more salutary.”

“By every manner of means, Sirrah Red Dragon, I would have you
recommend it.”

As the Countess Sylvia spoke she fixed another remorseless glance upon
the unhappy prince.

“That which one who is old, madam,” said the English giant in his
softest voice, “and one who hath been accustomed all his years to grope
for the light of the truth is fain to recommend to the grace of your
ladyship, is the most excessive rigour known to mankind; a greater
rigour which contains all the lesser rigours within itself; a rigour
which poor unlucky manhood, be it that of prince or of peasant, is wont
to regard with the same abhorrence as a sea-coal fire is regarded by
a gib cat with a singed tail. The barbarous and excessive rigour to
which your old honest servant refers, madam, is that which is profanely
called holy matrimony. English Dickon humbly submits, madam, that you
should receive John Castilian in the bonds of wedlock, and so visit the
royal rascal according to his merit.”

Upon the enunciation of this project, which had only been possible
to one of Sir Richard Pendragon’s surpassing boldness, the Count of
Nullepart and myself had a lively fear that madam would drive her
poinard into the heart of her over-presumptuous captain. For when he
spoke in this wise her slender fingers trembled on the jewelled hilt of
her dagger, and she cried out with flaming eyes,--

“Wed the spawn of darkness, sirrah! Wed the bloody-minded prince!”

“Even so, madam,” said the English giant, withdrawing a pace from her
striking hand. “Under your gracious favour, that is the rigour that is
humbly proposed by one who hath grown old in the love of virtue.”

As the Englishman spoke, a change was wrought in the demeanour of the
Countess Sylvia. Like a very woman or a small child, or perchance like
them both (for the worshipful Count of Nullepart assures me that they
are one and the same), she peered into the eyes of her captain. And the
manner of this action, which was one of a furtive modesty, seemed to
imply that she dared hardly to look lest she should discover that which
she feared to see.

“Wed the spawn of darkness!” she breathed softly. “I--I, Sirrah Red
Dragon--I wed the froward prince!”

She continued to repeat these words in a low voice. Yet ever and
anon she peered upwards to the red and hungry eyes of her great
captain, that were full of a sombre and whimsical phantasy. And to the
worshipful Count of Nullepart and to myself, who hung upon each phase
of that which was toward, it seemed to us both, in the curious anguish
of our hearts, that the lifeblood of the little Countess Sylvia ebbed
away from her even as she gazed.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE LAST


I KNOW not how long it was before the eyes of our mistress recoiled
from that humorous front with which her great captain met the whole
assembly. With her, I fear it must have been an age. Yet at last
her gaze, that was now hapless, faltered altogether, and, like a
proud-wingèd bird with its plumage torn, it fell to earth.

At the same instant this delectable form was shaken bitterly. And then
our mistress looked up, and with eyes that shone no more like the
Tagus, and with cheeks ashen white instead of the rosy carmine of a
fair flower, she said with a most beautiful gentleness,--

“An it please you, Sirrah Red Dragon, I--I will wed the froward prince.”

Without permitting her unhappiness to stray away to him to whom this
resolve was published, she summoned to her side the royal captive with
an air that was ineffable.

The King, who was only too well acquainted with all that had passed,
for it was of the highest significance to Castile and to himself, came
forward at his youthful cousin’s behest.

“Froward prince,” said the Countess Sylvia, speaking with a sweet
broken gentleness which yet seemed to proclaim a wide dominion of the
soul, “your crime is forgot. The halters are taken from the throats of
your ministers. Your treasuries are given back to you; and with them is
given my good pleasure.”

With a cheek the colour of snow, our mistress held forth her slender
jewelled fingers to him of Castile. Yet at first the King made no sign,
perhaps for bewilderment or perhaps for shame. And then, slowly and
modestly, with a humility in all his gestures, with a pure and noble
fire in his eyes, he knelt before her and bowed his head.


THE END



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

  New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
    public domain.




*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Fortune" ***

Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.