“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. CHAPTER XXII WE ARE HARD BESET I CANNOT say what happened next. I only know that the three of us sprang to our feet fighting for our lives. I had never seen blood drawn before in a quarrel; but now I had no time to speculate upon this ghastly proceeding. The sharp and cruel noise of steel was in our ears; the hot breaths of our foes were on our cheeks; and horrid cries, writhing forms, and devilish faces were all about us. So soon as the man with the cord was stretched on the floor, the first thing of which I was truly sensible was that Don Nicholas himself was down. He fell almost in the same instant and by the same hand, and he lay horridly in a huddle, with the blood staining him in his mortal anguish. The Englishman was now on his feet with his back to the wall and his sword free. All the soldiers in the venta, and they were not less than eight in number, infuriated by the sudden murder of their captain and their comrade, were springing upon him like a pack of wolves. Howbeit, it was a wonderful blade that the Englishman bore. He resisted their first onset so ably that they fell back before him. Only the most superb address could have saved him, but this was at his command. Yet no sooner had they been repulsed than they came at him again. They began to press him severely, but in the moment of his need the Count of Nullepart made an intervention. Knocking up one of their swords with his own blade, he drew the man off and engaged him brilliantly.