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.