And, as if to show that the worshipful Count of Nullepart had truly rendered his philosophy, at this moment a high yearning cry, like that of a soul in durance, was proclaimed in our ears. And we saw a crystal tear within each of the orbs of our mistress, within each of those orbs that were wont to look proud at the sun.
CHAPTER XXXVI
OF SOLPESIUS MUS, THE CAPTAIN-GENERAL OF THE JOGALONES
Madam sat in council to receive Sir Richard Pendragon, her valiant captain. The afternoon sky burst through the western windows of the great chamber in the glory of crimson and gold. It clothed in the frank nobility of heaven the form of our mistress, seated in her jewels and in her robes of state upon the daïs, with none near to her save his lordship’s grace, who slept lustily. When the doors were flung back her eyes sparkled like the beautiful Tagus when its fair face is all dimpled in smiling to the princely sun, and her proud lips were wide-parted as with the entranced speech of the heart’s poetry. A fanfare was sounded upon trumpets; and then Sir Richard Pendragon, leading nine captive noblemen, some with silver hairs, with their hands bound and halters about their necks, came into the presence of his mistress.
“I give you greeting, Sirrah Red Dragon,” said the Countess Sylvia, in speech of clear and round simplicity. “You are a true captain. You have done well.”
With the gesture of a queen she extended her beautiful hand.
“I kiss your feet, madam and ladyship,” said the English giant, sweeping off his bonnet, and his was the gesture of princes.
As he knelt to her, and touched the small hand that was all lily-white delicacy with his own enormous paw that was begrimed with travel and foul with the use of the sword, my two eyes sought the spot in which to place the poniard between his mighty shoulders. Yet was I fain to dismiss this thought as inconsistent with the sangre azul of my nation.
For the English giant had done well. Like a great and redoubtable captain—and some there were to believe that this product of a barbarous land was the first of his age—he had seized the hour when panic had descended upon the Castilian host. When they were as sheep without a shepherd, owing to their belief that the Prince of Darkness had spirited away the father of the flock, he had fallen upon them under the cover of night. He had dealt with them ruthlessly, killing many, despoiling their treasuries, abusing their arms, pursuing them off the plains full many a league, and dispersing a proud army to the four winds of God.
All this had the Englishman performed under the cover of night, at the instance of no more than two hundred well-mounted men. So had their fears at the mysterious loss of their king wrought upon the soldiers of the army of Castile that they had fled hot-foot in all directions before the onfall of Sir Richard Pendragon. For they were fain to believe that the Prince of Darkness had returned to claim them as well as their royal master.
In the very act of pursuit the Englishman had indulged his masterful skill to the full. He had singled out those of our foes it would profit him best to destroy. He had cut down all of the King’s captains and ministers he could come at, overriding them full many a league, yet sparing nine of the foremost in order that their presence in captivity might pleasure our mistress and promote the terms of the peace.