“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.”