“Ods my life! Sirrah Red Dragon,” said the duke, “I am minded to be severe; I will use severity. Pull her down; do not spare her. But I would have thee see to it, good coz, that she do not stab thee.”
In the meantime the English giant was still looking from the old duke to the youthful countess, from the youthful countess to the old duke. At last he threw his sword on the ground, pressed his great hands to his ribs, and broke into such a report of laughter that it rolled round the tall ceiling like the voice of the giant Fierabras.
“God’s tomb!” he roared. “If I do not spit blood I shall never need surgery! If a most desperate fluxion does not surmount my poor brains I am no man. If I do not perish of an overwrought mind I am a dog! By the holy ape of Barbary, I shall laugh till I shed large tears!”
“Ods nig and nog!” cried the duke, resuming his querulous manners. “Sirrah Red Dragon, will you reject me! Will you not do my bidding? Must I, who am old and a parent, pull down a she-wolf and correct her with the hand of mine own indignation? Ods nig and nog! is there no manhood in Spain?”
While the duke continued to fume and splutter in this unworthy fashion, the great English giant, and you must believe me, reader, when I tell you he appeared to be as enormous as the heroes and ogres in the old romances, continued to press on his ribs, and, even as he had himself predicted, to shed veritable tears of laughter. But presently the mien of the Countess Sylvia seemed to pacify this great coarse fellow. For, as she stood gazing from her eminence with majestic looks, small as she was and fragile, she was indeed a figure to touch the heart of a gallant warrior.
“By my hand,” said the Englishman, abating his mirth into a true admiration. “If this is not a piece of true mettle I am a rogue. Why, thou sweet thing, thou art as red in the cheek as a carnation.”
“Sirrah ruffian!” said the little Countess Sylvia, exposing her stiletto; “I would have you ’ware me. I will kill you if you come near.”
“There, hearken to her, hearken to her!” cried the duke. “Did I not say she was a spitfire? Did I not say she was a proud and wicked hulks?”
“Come near thee,” said the English barbarian, “why, thou beautiful thing, thou art a rose, a flower! Thou hast a light in thy eye like a bud in June. I’ve a mind to buss thee for thy prettiness.”
“Is there no manhood abroad in the world?” cried the duke; “will no man pull her down?”