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!”