As we turned our horses towards the Spanish frontier, seldom have I heard such bitter curses. Yet, even making abatement for Sir Richard’s sanguine temper, I marvelled that one of such wisdom as this Englishman should have built such towering hopes upon such a poor foundation. As I was fain to remark to the Count of Nullepart, “How could we suppose that such as the King of France would give us an easy bargain? And how could one so accomplished in the world as Sir Richard Pendragon deceive himself so sorely upon such a subject?” To this the Count of Nullepart rejoined, “My dear friend, a high poetic temper puts a continual affront upon its possessor. This wonderful Englishman travels three continents, ordering his ideas not by the light of reason but by the light of fantasy. He takes no heed of those obstacles which pedestrian minds cannot surmount. And although it is true that on occasion he knocks his brains against them with no better reward than a broken pate, yet through the world he goes, assailing them with the winged heels of his imagination, so that, by my faith, he is prone to overleap these barriers altogether. And I conceive, my dear, that you and I, who are his humble followers, who, moving after him at a respectful distance, are yet sworn to serve his whims, will be not a little beguiled--we who are amateurs of the human heart--to observe into what courses his fantasy will presently be leading him.” In this the Count of Nullepart spoke correctly. We awaited the further exploits of our remarkable leader with the highest curiosity. CHAPTER XXIX SIR RICHARD PENDRAGON’S STRATEGY IT was not until we were clear of the soil of France that the Englishman was able to shake off his resentment against King Louis, “the pock-marked Flemish grocer,” as he dubbed him. Then it was that in some mysterious manner his sanguine temper came again to his aid. I cannot remember one who came near this Englishman in that power of self-belief which renders a man in his own esteem not less than the peer of nature. In the lustre of his new designs he began to forget his cross in fortune. Precisely what these were we had yet to discover; yet, as we returned into my fair native country, it was clear that the mind of Sir Richard Pendragon was moved by some new ambition. On several occasions he brought his horse to a stand in order that he might proudly survey the distant hills. And having done this he would cause them to re-echo with his great baying laughter. “O Dickon, Dickon!” he roared, “thou who art of the seed of that Uthyr that was Arthur’s sire, and that was german-cousin to Giant Cormoran that gorged upon Christian children in his Cornish fastness, what an inveterately nimble humour thou hast, thou ruby-coloured one, with thy lean look and thy high integrity!” Then, having thus spoken, he would beat his thigh with his fist in such wise as to provoke his curious beast Melanto to strive furiously to throw him.