OF OUR FIRST PASSAGES WITH THE CASTILIAN
KNOWING the temper of our companion towards all of this complexion, we
expected no less of him than that he would spring to his feet at once
and have at this ruffler. But, to our surprise, he remained just as he
was, not stirring a hand, yet abating his speech into a curious kind of
softness, which seemed to me, who knew his prowess, to render him the
more formidable.
“Do you hear, you Bavarian dog?” the infuriated soldier cried in his
ear as he brandished his sword. “I say I will cut off your head!”
The Englishman yawned a little, and then said in a tone of such
humility as to render it surprising, “May I ask your excellency to
accord English Dickon a brief space for his prayers? His was a nice
mother, she had a nice son, and her last charge to her first-born was,
‘Richard, when Heaven requires you, let a life of integrity be your
passport to the Holy Stool.’”
The soldiers seemed inclined to accept this whimsical mildness for
pusillanimity.
“By the devil’s life,” said the soldier, whose valour appeared to wax
higher before the Englishman’s forbearance, “you shall have a minute
for your orisons, you red-coloured, beer-swilling snuffler!”
“No more?” said the English giant. “Consider it, your excellency--a
minute is a little space. There will be no time for a priest. And then
the Host ought to be sent for.”
“Not an instant more, by the devil’s life!” cried the furious soldier.
“Alack!” said Sir Richard Pendragon, “I would have liked the clergy,
but I suppose it is not to be. Yet it will be a sad meeting in heaven,
all the same, with my sainted dam.”
The soldier cast a reflection upon the mother of Sir Richard Pendragon
that no man of my nation would have found possible to overpass. Instead
of heeding it, however, the English giant called to the innkeeper,
“Landlord, I would have you bring me a cup of sherris in order that I
may perish gracefully.”
Here it was, however, before the landlord was able to obey this order,
or the Castilian bravo had the opportunity to lay his own design into
execution, that the affair took a new turn. At this moment another
soldier, whose moustachios were fiercer and whose plume was longer than
those of any of his comrades, and who, to judge by the deference that
was paid him, appeared to be their captain, entered the inn. Swearing
an oath, he strode through the angry group, and in the fashion of one
who was preparing to devour us, approached us three who sat peacefully
about the hearth.
“What is this?” he cried. “Who are these that dare to wear cloaks and
sit by the fire in the presence of the King’s soldiers?”
“These are Bavarian brawlers, gracious Don Nicholas,” said a greybeard
among the soldiers.
“Bavarian brawlers, are they?” said Don Nicholas. “By Our Lady, they
shall be taken to the King’s dungeon. At them and seize them and take
them away!”
At this command the soldiers made as if they would lay hands upon us;
and as the Count of Nullepart seemed little inclined to deny them, and
Sir Richard Pendragon appeared to have grown so sleepy that he could
hardly keep awake, I took upon myself to declare our true quality.
As became a Spanish gentleman, I rose from my seat and offered it to
Don Nicholas. Also I uncloaked myself as I said, “You err in this, most
worshipful. I am a hidalgo of Spain, the Count of Nullepart is a member
of the French nobility, and Sir Richard Pendragon, although the fruit
of a barbarous nation, is spoken of as one of its chief ornaments.”
“So I am, good Don,” said the English giant, opening his eyes
somnolently as I mentioned his name; “they think of me well in London.”
Yet here it was that our passages took a turn which was both unexpected
and to be regretted. For no sooner had Don Nicholas heard the name
of Sir Richard Pendragon, and had learned the barbarous sound of his
voice, then he gave back a pace and cried out joyfully, “Body of Jesus!
this is the captain of the English thieves who robbed the church of San
Maria, and who broke out of his Majesty’s prison the night before his
execution.”
“Surely it is!” cried the grey-bearded soldier. “It is that infamous
foreign robber.”
Sir Richard Pendragon rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and into them
there entered a kind of furtive humour.
“Rob a church!” he said, with that softness that was so surprising.
“English Richard rob a church! Why, you poor, good souls, I was bred
in a monastery; I have a kinsman a bishop; ’a was the brother of my
sainted mother.”
“Yes, it is the English robber,” said Don Nicholas grimly. “The sight
of him will be very pleasant to the King’s majesty. He hath placed a
thousand crowns on his head.”
“Yon fellow might well want to cut it off,” said Sir Richard Pendragon.
“But rob a church--I with my integrity! Oh, these poor Spaniards! I
fear their minds are as disorderly as those of the poor Dutch.”
Yet now our situation was undoubtedly grave. The odds were ten against
three. I cannot answer for the Count of Nullepart, but to judge by
his air, his feelings in this pass must have been similar to my own.
Whatever were the crimes of our companion, for the time being at least
our fortunes were his. The King of Castile was our common enemy. We
must defend our mistress’s good servant, even if it cost us our lives.
Howbeit, he, confronted with such grave peril, still seemed not to heed
the instancy of his case.
“Rob a church!” he said in that soft voice that was so sinister. “I,
with the blood of kings under my coat; I, the veritable son of a prince
of a true propinquity--I despoil the good clergy! Why, you poor souls,
you must have been drinking sherris.”
“Have done, you rogue with a red face!” said Don Nicholas. “Bring a
cord, one of you, that we may bind his hands.”
“A cord, you good, honest Spaniard!” said the English giant. “Wherefore
a cord, when gentle English Dickon would not outface a small she child
in the arms of its kind female nurse?”
In despite of Sir Richard Pendragon’s innocent protestations one of the
soldiers produced a long stout cord, and under the direction of Don
Nicholas prepared somewhat warily to pinion the hands of the English
giant.
“Nay, come forward, good soldier,” said Sir Richard Pendragon,
stretching forth his wrists and crossing one over the other. “And if it
is your humour, coil the rude cord around poor Dick. Come forward, I
pray you; I have no defence but my virtue.”
Upon this invitation, which was given with a courtesy which I, at
least, had never heard before upon the lips of this formidable
foreigner, the soldier stepped forward with his noose. And it was to be
observed he was none other than that swaggerer who a few moments since
had promised to cut off the head of the Englishman.
“This is a good honest cord,” said Sir Richard Pendragon as it was
about to be slipped upon him, “and you, honest Spaniard, appear to be a
good mother’s son.”
And then in a flash, in a flash of incredible quickness, with the same
sleek and courteous smile upon his lips, the English giant had plucked
a dagger from under the folds of his mantle, and had stabbed the
wretched soldier to the heart.