In this also Sir Richard Pendragon had counted well. The presence of these nine noble Castilians with halters about their necks gave credence to the wonderful story that he had to tell. When his great exploit had been unfolded in its fulness, it appeared that the power of Castile was broken. And when madam understood so much, and further, that her great captain had not only delivered her of famine and the sword, but had also returned with great loot of treasure, she said with a proud yet gentle instancy that her good Sirrah Red Dragon might command her anything.
Now, in the fire of that imperious yet chaste and lovely glance the Count of Nullepart and myself read the invitation for which our veins were hungry. Yet I think it must be allowed to the Count of Nullepart that he had the gift of prophecy. For as the Countess Sylvia again extended her slender fingers that were all lily-white daintiness, the English barbarian robber, as he bore them to his bearded chops in his bloodstained gripe, caused the very roof to re-echo with his laughter.
“By my good mother’s soul!” he roared, “if it were not that old honest Dickon durst not marry out of the English nobility, sweet madam and ladyship, you might easily have the best husband in Spain.”
Again the eyes of the Countess Sylvia sparkled like the beautiful Tagus.
“What words are these, Sirrah Red Dragon?” said she with a proud instancy. “Do you reject the gracious dignity of a woman’s heart? Is it, Sirrah Red Dragon, that you disdain the royal gratitude of an hundred descents?”
“It is that I neither disdain nor reject them, madam,” said the English giant, speaking as though his soul was an empire, yet with a whimsical humour in his great red eyes. “But this old jack bully must reck his rede, as we English say. He can never marry, good madam and ladyship, although there is the blood of kings under his doublet. He must reck his rede. He is the offspring of fantasy; he was born in a mild and sweet season under the bright moon. He is of the seed of Merlin; the sap of Arthur is in his bones; and although he had a good mother, and he is the natural son of Henry Plantagenet, yet from his natal hour a bend sinister hath twisted his sweet soul. Therefore he can wed no woman, dear little Spanish butterfly, for, let me whisper it in thy pretty ears, that good Dickon, honest fellow, is none other than the veritable Solpesius Mus, the Captain-General of the Jogalones.”
Having thus spoke our mistress in this strange mad wise, the English giant, for all the world as though his soul was a wide dominion, bent to her his grinning visage and bussed her soundly upon the lips in the presence of the whole company. No sooner had she suffered this bold caress than she withdrew her face swiftly, as though it had been stung by the venom of bees. Her cheek was like a crimson flower and her eyes brimmed with their passionate tears.
“Sirrah giant,” said this delectable thing, as if she too had a wide dominion in her soul, “I would have the whole of thee, the whole of thy great capacity and thy wide-wingèd fantasy, or I would have thee not at all.”
“Alack, alack!” said the Englishman with a whimsical sigh, “that poor Dickon, old honest fellow, should be none other than the veritable Solpesius Mus, the Captain-General of the Jogalones!”
And in my ears came the soft enchanting laughter of the worshipful Count of Nullepart.