OF SOLPESIUS MUS, THE CAPTAIN-GENERAL OF THE JOGALONES
MADAM sat in council to receive Sir Richard Pendragon, her valiant
captain. The afternoon sky burst through the western windows of the
great chamber in the glory of crimson and gold. It clothed in the frank
nobility of heaven the form of our mistress, seated in her jewels
and in her robes of state upon the daïs, with none near to her save
his lordship’s grace, who slept lustily. When the doors were flung
back her eyes sparkled like the beautiful Tagus when its fair face
is all dimpled in smiling to the princely sun, and her proud lips
were wide-parted as with the entranced speech of the heart’s poetry.
A fanfare was sounded upon trumpets; and then Sir Richard Pendragon,
leading nine captive noblemen, some with silver hairs, with their hands
bound and halters about their necks, came into the presence of his
mistress.
“I give you greeting, Sirrah Red Dragon,” said the Countess Sylvia, in
speech of clear and round simplicity. “You are a true captain. You have
done well.”
With the gesture of a queen she extended her beautiful hand.
“I kiss your feet, madam and ladyship,” said the English giant,
sweeping off his bonnet, and his was the gesture of princes.
As he knelt to her, and touched the small hand that was all lily-white
delicacy with his own enormous paw that was begrimed with travel and
foul with the use of the sword, my two eyes sought the spot in which
to place the poniard between his mighty shoulders. Yet was I fain to
dismiss this thought as inconsistent with the sangre azul of my nation.
For the English giant had done well. Like a great and redoubtable
captain--and some there were to believe that this product of a
barbarous land was the first of his age--he had seized the hour when
panic had descended upon the Castilian host. When they were as sheep
without a shepherd, owing to their belief that the Prince of Darkness
had spirited away the father of the flock, he had fallen upon them
under the cover of night. He had dealt with them ruthlessly, killing
many, despoiling their treasuries, abusing their arms, pursuing them
off the plains full many a league, and dispersing a proud army to the
four winds of God.
All this had the Englishman performed under the cover of night, at the
instance of no more than two hundred well-mounted men. So had their
fears at the mysterious loss of their king wrought upon the soldiers
of the army of Castile that they had fled hot-foot in all directions
before the onfall of Sir Richard Pendragon. For they were fain to
believe that the Prince of Darkness had returned to claim them as well
as their royal master.
In the very act of pursuit the Englishman had indulged his masterful
skill to the full. He had singled out those of our foes it would
profit him best to destroy. He had cut down all of the King’s captains
and ministers he could come at, overriding them full many a league, yet
sparing nine of the foremost in order that their presence in captivity
might pleasure our mistress and promote the terms of the peace.
In this also Sir Richard Pendragon had counted well. The presence
of these nine noble Castilians with halters about their necks gave
credence to the wonderful story that he had to tell. When his great
exploit had been unfolded in its fulness, it appeared that the power
of Castile was broken. And when madam understood so much, and further,
that her great captain had not only delivered her of famine and the
sword, but had also returned with great loot of treasure, she said
with a proud yet gentle instancy that her good Sirrah Red Dragon might
command her anything.
Now, in the fire of that imperious yet chaste and lovely glance the
Count of Nullepart and myself read the invitation for which our veins
were hungry. Yet I think it must be allowed to the Count of Nullepart
that he had the gift of prophecy. For as the Countess Sylvia again
extended her slender fingers that were all lily-white daintiness, the
English barbarian robber, as he bore them to his bearded chops in his
bloodstained gripe, caused the very roof to re-echo with his laughter.
“By my good mother’s soul!” he roared, “if it were not that old honest
Dickon durst not marry out of the English nobility, sweet madam and
ladyship, you might easily have the best husband in Spain.”
Again the eyes of the Countess Sylvia sparkled like the beautiful
Tagus.
“What words are these, Sirrah Red Dragon?” said she with a proud
instancy. “Do you reject the gracious dignity of a woman’s heart? Is
it, Sirrah Red Dragon, that you disdain the royal gratitude of an
hundred descents?”
“It is that I neither disdain nor reject them, madam,” said the English
giant, speaking as though his soul was an empire, yet with a whimsical
humour in his great red eyes. “But this old jack bully must reck his
rede, as we English say. He can never marry, good madam and ladyship,
although there is the blood of kings under his doublet. He must reck
his rede. He is the offspring of fantasy; he was born in a mild and
sweet season under the bright moon. He is of the seed of Merlin; the
sap of Arthur is in his bones; and although he had a good mother, and
he is the natural son of Henry Plantagenet, yet from his natal hour
a bend sinister hath twisted his sweet soul. Therefore he can wed no
woman, dear little Spanish butterfly, for, let me whisper it in thy
pretty ears, that good Dickon, honest fellow, is none other than the
veritable Solpesius Mus, the Captain-General of the Jogalones.”
Having thus spoke our mistress in this strange mad wise, the English
giant, for all the world as though his soul was a wide dominion, bent
to her his grinning visage and bussed her soundly upon the lips in the
presence of the whole company. No sooner had she suffered this bold
caress than she withdrew her face swiftly, as though it had been stung
by the venom of bees. Her cheek was like a crimson flower and her eyes
brimmed with their passionate tears.
“Sirrah giant,” said this delectable thing, as if she too had a wide
dominion in her soul, “I would have the whole of thee, the whole of thy
great capacity and thy wide-wingèd fantasy, or I would have thee not at
all.”
“Alack, alack!” said the Englishman with a whimsical sigh, “that poor
Dickon, old honest fellow, should be none other than the veritable
Solpesius Mus, the Captain-General of the Jogalones!”
And in my ears came the soft enchanting laughter of the worshipful
Count of Nullepart.