“Señor caballero, I fear I am under the necessity of having to correct you.” I laid my hand on my sword with a dignified gesture. “By all means, young Hop-o’-my-Thumb.” His harsh voice sank into a most remarkable cooing softness. “I am ever open to correction, as becomes a good mother’s son who hath received it regularly.” “Here, sir, and now,” I cried hotly, dragging my sword from its case. While I had been speaking, the eyes of the barbarian had opened wider and wider, till at the moment I showed him my steel he opened his mouth and sent up such a peal of laughter to the hams, onions, and lemons that lined the beams in the roof, as nearly provoked the poor innkeeper, who all this time had taken care to keep behind me, to take leave of his wits. “Why, if this is not a giant-killer”--he pressed his hands to his ribs and roared like a bull--“I am not a king’s son. By the lord Harry, what a notable assemblance have we here! By cock, how he doth spread his five feet nothing! If he had but a beard under his chin, he might break an egg. And look you, he holds his point as staunchly as old harlequin bears his wand in the Lord Mayor’s Show.” “On guard, sir, immediately”--I advanced a step upon him--“before I run you through the heart.” Instead, however, of heeding my purpose, he continued to address most immoderate roars to the roof, and his huge frame swayed on the stool like a ship in distress. “Why, there’s fierceness!” he roared. “The valiancy of the tempest in a pouncet box. By my good soul, I have never seen anything so terrible, unless it is a cricket sitting under a thorn with its ears spread, or a squirrel casting for nuts in a scarce July. But here’s my hand, little Jack Giant-killer. Do you hop upon it like a good thing; and I pray you, Jacky, do not preen your feathers like a starling, else a fluxion will mount in my brains and I shall spit blood.” The enormous barbarian held his hand towards me, as though I were a small bird with feathers, and he puckered up his mouth, as if he would coax me to perch upon his forefinger. He kept gazing at me sideways, and now and again would whisk away his face and break into laughter the most unseemly. I tapped the point of my sword on the floor in the instancy of anger. “Feathers!” he cried. “By my good soul, they preen and bristle like the back of a goose. Why I would like to wear your quills in my bonnet and eat your grease in a pie.” “I am afraid you do not apprehend, sir,” said I, striving to regain my composure, “with whom you hold speech. My name is Sarda; and Don Ygnacio, my illustrious father, both by descent and nurture was one of the first of his native province of Asturias. His family have served their country in a thousand ways, since the time of that Ruy Diaz whom we call familiarly the Cid.”