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.