“I am afraid, Sir Richard,” I confessed, “that in my heat I would have slain you readily had it but lain in my power.”
“Well, well,” said this remarkable man, with a magnanimity for which I should have been the last to allow him the credit, “in our heats and violences even we strong minds are like to commit that from which in soberness we should refrain. I remember discoursing upon this point with the Crown Prince of Bohemia. ‘Charles,’ said I—there was ever a great familiarity between us—‘Charles,’ said I, ‘I would slay no man in a private quarrel unless he were a villain.’ ‘Not even if he had sworn to slay you, my illustrious friend?’ said the Crown Prince. ‘No, Charles,’ said I. ‘The truly illustrious are the truly magnanimous.’ ‘The sentiment is fine, good coz,’ said the heir to the throne. ‘There speaks a great folly or a great nature.’ Now, my young companion, which cap is it that fits the first-born son of a sainted English lady?”
“I believe you to be a good man, Sir Englishman. I know you are a great swordsman; and also you appear to have an excellent knowledge of the world. I make you my service.”
“These are honest words,” said he. “I wish you had an hundred crowns; you would make a good appearance as my squire. You would be able to clean my horse as well as another, and polish my spurs, and in return I would advise you in the use of the sword, the broadsword, and, above all, the noblest of God’s implements—the Italian rapier.”
“I would that I had, sir, for it would seem that I have but slight pretension to the handling of these weapons. And methinks that here is an art in which a man must aspire to excellence if he is to win his way to fortune in a time so perilous.”
“You speak sooth, my son. A pedigree will bring no advancement to virtue in these evil times unless it is accompanied by a bit of shrewd steel and a deft wrist to push home its modest claims. But I grieve to say, good Don, that I never met a more disappointing blade. Had you never borne it before in the cause of integrity?”
I confessed that I had not.
“Well, gossip, you must pass many a weary vigil ere you can win the mastery of this incomparable tool. But in spite of your nation, as I perceive you to be a youth of parts, I have a mind to put you in the way of the rudiments. My young son of the Spains, your peninsula is a foolish one; but, as I say, you are of good birth and your intentions are honourable—two vital particulars upon which my sainted mother was extremely nice. It will only be a little against me if I teach you the use of the sword. Give me those eight crowns and you shall be my squire.”
He held out his hand for all I had in the world. Yet this was a matter for grave reflection. Poor as I was, and humbled in my thoughts, I was still a Spanish gentleman; and expert as was this Englishman with the sword, and finely as he was found in wisdom, he was yet one of another nation, and scarcely to be esquired by a blood like mine. My condition was such that I could not give my service to one less in degree than a Spanish nobleman, or one who was at least a prince in his own country; and although this Englishman had moved about the courts of Europe and Asia Minor, and the blood of kings flowed under his doublet, it was yet a parlous thing for my father’s son, a veritable Sarda y Boegas, to attend him in a humble capacity.
“Why, brother,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, “would you insult a generous nature with your reluctancy? Is not the suggestion a noble one? Is it not princely? Have I not peddled a great mind about Europe for thirty years in the mild pursuit of knowledge, and do I not place at your service the whole store of my politeness for the paltry sum of eight crowns? Yet was I ever immoderate in the love of worth. My young Spaniard, I have conceived a deep regard for your character. Besides, I am in need of a squire, and between you and me and the door, eight crowns will not come amiss.”