“A thousand pardons, good Sir Richard!” said I incredulously, “but I pray you to consider of your suggestion. Are you not given to the practice of exaggeration?”
He plucked at his beard when he discovered that the warmth of his fancy filled me with so much distrust.
“Well, you see, Miguel,” said he, “if it comes to that, perhaps I am something of an exaggeration altogether. But at least I do not exaggerate half so much as nature hath exaggerated me. I am a yard and a half across and two yards and a quarter high.”
“I am ready to believe, good Sir Richard, that a capacious mind goes with such an assemblance as yours.”
“Aye, but there is not the worst of that matter. Such a parcel of the virtues wants a bucket of sack of a morning to keep it in health. And sack is such a notorious inflamer of the fancy that I sometimes break into poetry and all kinds of bombastical ideas. So, my son, I would not have you heed above half what I say.”
It was in this easy fashion that we came to Antirun. The stars had long been shining in the wilderness, yet we arrived without ill hap and supped at the best inn in the place. But as there only chanced to be one it was also the worst; and doubtless I might have pointed a truer indication of its character had I described it as the latter. I shall never forget the abuse that Sir Richard Pendragon showered upon the landlord, and although the food was plenty and smoking hot and the wine was tolerable, he swore his constitution was ruined.
“This is a most damnable peninsula, no doubt about that,” said he as he proceeded to carve a great smoking turkey.
“Have you been long in our delectable land?” I asked, seeking to divert his mind from the innkeeper, who was as pale as a ghost.
“Three years and forty days,” said he, “according to the calendar. But I think I ought to tell you, Spaniardo, that is just three years and forty days too many.”
“I trust that is far from being the case.”