After our meal, as we lay under the trees in the wood, I conversed with the worthy Count of Nullepart upon this subject. Sir Richard Pendragon had already fallen asleep. It was his boast that he could command this solace at any moment of the day or night.
“It is the power of the mind, my dear Don Miguel,” said the Count of Nullepart. “This ingenious and subtle adventurer has a power of mind that a god might envy.”
“But, worshipful Count of Nullepart,” I protested, “his manners are ungentle; he insults a noble country; he traduces an ancient name; he takes life without remorse and with a most practised hand. He reveres not the truth, and he is over-familiar with the All-Wise Creator. Wherefore, Sir Count, if his mind is as you say, doth he not walk abroad with decency?”
“My dear Don Miguel,” said the Count of Nullepart, “it is because of his natural force. Does the wind walk abroad with decency? It can be soft and courteous, yet more often it is rude and violent. But whatever its humour, all of us, Spanish hidalgo or French rapscallion, must obey its whims. It is the same with this Englishman. He knows no law save his natural puissance; and you and I, my dear, have not the power to do other than respect it.”
Upon this the Count of Nullepart drew his cloak about him and went to sleep. I was not satisfied in the least as to the ground on which I went, but being too fatigued to confer further with my thoughts I was fain also to do the same.
In the course of a long week’s journey we had quitted the dominion of the King of Castile, and the perils of the road were diminished sensibly. Thenceforward we took again to the public ways, and were glad indeed of the additional comfort and security.
I was now permitted to observe more clearly the beauties of nature, for all the fair provinces through which we passed were strange to me. And this I did the more particularly, I think, since at the many reflections I was moved to make upon the sweet qualities of the hills and valley and the streams and meadows by which we passed, Sir Richard Pendragon took upon himself to deride continually that which he called “my peninsularity”; and though admitting “that the scene was not amiss, considering that it was set in a dry climate, it compared very poorly with the honest woodland pastures in the vicinity of Wapping, which was near to London City.”
When we drew near to that most noble chain of mountains which in these parts is called the Pyrenees, and whose serious magnificence, which transcended all that my mind had ever conceived of our most wonderful country, was spread before my gaze, I turned to my foreign companion with a sense of triumph that I could not restrain.
“I will allow your country to be a fair place, worshipful Sir Richard Pendragon,” I said, “but if it has aught to compare with these tall mountains, it must be heaven itself, which is the home of the good God.”
“Why, you poor mad soul!” said he contemptuously, “you speak of these as mountains—mountains, you soft goose? Why, they would speak of them as dunghills if they were near to London.”