“By my troth,” he said, “it would be a happy deliverance of a bad man if John Castilian was hung on the gate with a spike through his neck. But grievously do I doubt me of the wisdom of the policy. We are but three hundred men-at-arms, and Castile is a broad dominion. If we put out the life of this prince, the queen-mother will gather new forces and come again to the gate. And honest Dickon is fain to observe that the old bitch wolf will be found with a longer tooth than the whelp.”
That this was the voice of wisdom we had no thought to deny. Therefore it behoved us to spread the light of statecraft before our mistress. Yet, as you will readily believe, such a task was no light one. Still, accomplished it must be, although he who would turn a woman aside from her vengeance may be said to take his life in his hand.
Sir Richard Pendragon, however, was the last man in the world to blench before the face of danger. And so, with a most humble civility that rendered the sinister laughter of his eyes the more formidable, he addressed the Countess Sylvia.
“Madam,” said he, “was old honest Dickon dreaming o’ nights when he heard the grace of your ladyship’s nobility declare that he might command her anything?”
The fair damask cheek of our mistress grew again like that of a carnation; again were her eyes filled with proud shining.
“You heard aright, Sirrah Red Dragon,” she said softly. “It is my desire that you command me anything.”
“Then old honest Dickon, a good fellow, kisses your small feet and makes you a leg, peerless rose of the south, and he asks for the life of John Castilian.”
The bosom of our mistress heaved rebelliously. Tears of mortified caprice crept into her eyes. With contempt and bitterness she cast a glance at the King, who stood in mournful converse with his ministers. She then confronted her great captain.
“Sirrah Red Dragon,” she said in accents that were choked by a rage of tears, “do you take the life of the spawn of darkness. Use it as you will, sirrah. It was you that gave it to me; it is meet that you should receive it back again. I do not ask upon what pretext you would hold it; but—but, sirrah,” and her whole form quivered strangely, “I do ask—I do ask, sirrah, is this the whole of your good pleasure?”
Yet no sooner had she spoke those last unlucky words, and, as it were, laid bare her proud bosom, than she averted her beautiful cheeks that were like a scarlet rose, and in the sudden wild rage of her own weakness, that she whom kings must woo in vain had come herself to woo, she hid her eyes.