CHAPTER XXIOF OUR FIRST PASSAGES WITH THE CASTILIAN
Knowingthe 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 DonNicholas. “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.