“You ask my name, good Spaniard; well now, what do you think of Richard Pendragon for a name?”
“A truly fine name,” said I, being led to this statement by the love of politeness, although I am not sure that I did not feel it to be a very barbarous name after all.
“Sir Richard Pendragon, knight; yes, by my hand, that’s a name! I have seen Goths and Arabs turn pale at it; it has been embraced by the foremost in valour; it has lain in the bed of queens. Yet the bearer of that name is gentle enough, by my soul; for it is the name of a good and true man, a simple knight, a valiant friend, a courteous enemy; a humble-minded seeker of light who is addicted to reading the stars and the works of nature. I have seen the wearer of this most inimitable name wipe the blood of a Barbary pirate off his sword with the hem of his pourpoint, and sit down and write a ballad. I have never seen his superior in female company. You may well ask my name, good Spaniard, for, without making a boast, which I abhor, where shall you find such performance united to such simplicity, such chaste austerity to such constancy in love? I tell thee, Spaniard, had I not been nurtured in humility, had I not been inducted to it by my sainted mother, even as the young kid is taught to bleat by the reception of its milk, I must have been a boaster, for I am of royal lineage, and the blood of kings flows under my doublet.”
“Hombre de dios!” I cried excitedly, for my own brains seemed overmounted by his enthusiasm, “you have indeed a great name. I would love to hear of those kings of whom you appear to be such a worthy descendant.”
“This is a proper curiosity, my honest youth. The name of my father is no less than Edward of England. I am his son, but not his heir. If every man walked according to his merit, the royal offspring that bespeaks you would have the crown of Great Britain tilted upon his left eyebrow at an angle of forty-five degrees.”
“For what reason have you not, sir, if you are indeed the king’s son and the crown is yours in the course of nature?”
“There was a little irregularity connected with my birth, which at the time of its occurrence I was not in a situation to adjust. Thenceforward a race of knaves and formalists have taken the wall of honest Dick, and have placed another upon the throne of England. But mark me, my son, the hour will strike when one who has grown old in the love of virtue will make good his estate, for he can show a line of kings upon both sides of his family. Upon the side of his dam is one Uthyr Pendragon, and of the seed of him sprang Arthur, who many years ago was a sovereign lord of Britain. It was many years ago, I say, but this Arthur was a good prince, a man of integrity, and his name is still mentioned favourably in his native country.”
“When, sir, do you propose to make this attempt upon the throne of England?”
At this question Sir Richard Pendragon assumed an air of magnificence, which did not consort very well with the hole in his scabbard and the condition of his hose and doublet.
“All in a good season,” he said majestically. “If not to-day it will be to-morrow. The truth is the machinations of the wicked have left me somewhat light in purse, and have also blown upon my reputation. But I don’t doubt that some fair morning when the larks are singing, the first-born son of a sainted mother, for all his misfortune and his plaguy dry throat, will land at Dover and march to London city at the head of twenty thousand Christian gentlemen who have sworn to redress his injuries.”