CHAPTER XXXVIOF SOLPESIUS MUS, THE CAPTAIN-GENERAL OF THE JOGALONES
Madamsat 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 theEnglish 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 singledout 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 shetoo 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.