“Soldiers of the guard,” she said, as though she were speaking to an army, “your bare swords are your peril. His lordship’s grace is no longer your commander. He is an old man and a querulous; a dotard so shrunk in his wits that I hereby depose him. Myself as the mistress to his dominion do appoint myself to the regency. From this moment do I declare myself no less your master than your mistress. Here do I take my stance; here do I enforce my authority; and these virtuous gentlemen that keep at my side are your honourable captains. Sheathe your swords therefore, doff your bonnets, and like honest men do homage to your liege-lady.”
Now, I was never able to learn whether this wonderful speech was given—and you must believe me, reader, when I assure you it was no less wonderful in its mode than in its form—for the behoof of his grace’s soldiers or for that of his grace himself. At least it was not without an effect upon both. The guard looked at the duke in just such a fashion as Don Luiz and the dwarf had done; and he, like the dotard that at heart he was, began to whine and threaten and hurl abuse upon this noble intrepidity, and yet himself to stand irresolute.
“Ods wounds! I do not want to slay the little tiger-cat,” he whined. “Take the dagger from her. You, sirrah, take the dagger from her, but I pray you do not hurt her.”
The bearded warrior upon whom the duke called to execute this command seemed in nowise eager to enact a deed so delicate.
“Stand clear, you paltry ruffian!” said the little countess. “If you so much as touch my sleeve I will stab you.”
In good sooth a proper discretion was necessary. The eminence upon which her ladyship stood and her perfect valiancy rendered it work for a bold man to come near her. Again, there was her dagger to consider, also a keen pair of blades flanking her sacred person one on each side.
It is easy to believe that such a situation was not without its humour. But for the three chief actors in this play, who stood shoulder to shoulder upon the daïs, it was grave indeed.
“Sirrah, sirrah!” cried the duke. “You with your beard under your chin, down with her, I say! Take away her dagger; or must I stand in the presence of insubordination?”
The soldier approached warily under the goad of the duke’s wrath, and came up to our platform, with his mouth open wide like a stuck bear.
“Is there none that will heed me, Luiz?” cried the duke. “Is it come to this: must I conduct mine own business by mine own valiancy? Must I, sore smitten with the infirmity of my seventy years and three, take away this vixenish dagger with this ancient hand?”