“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.”