“I give you no greeting, John of Castile,” she said in her clear speech, that was so loud and ringing. “I make you no service, infamous cousin. I would not soil my lips with your name, you bloody and covetous villain, had they not long been accustomed to bespeak dogs and horses. But we would have you kneel for pardon, treacherous caitiff, whose blood smokes black in your heart like that of the evil fiend. For it is our intention, you paltry knave, first to cut off your ears, as we would those of a cheat and a pickpocket; and then we will devise in what further manner to deal with one who would rob his poor relations.” To this terrific speech that was delivered with an insolent scorn that could not have been surpassed, the King of Castile replied with a gesture of most kingly disdain. And I think the little Countess Sylvia, meeting the full power of that sombre and fearless glance, was in some measure given to pause. She had not looked for it that an enemy brought captive into her hands should venture thus to outface the full torrent of her fury. A minute of silence passed, in which each of these creatures exchanged their regal gestures. The meeting of their disdainful eyes was like that of a pair of true blades. It was as though each must overbear the other in the shock of their contention. “It is my intention to ask no pardon, madam,” said the King composedly. “I am a young man, but I am learned enough to ask pardon of none. I do not fear death.” “You do not fear death, base thief and murderer that you are!” said the Countess Sylvia, while her eyes spat at him. “Why should you fear death, you unready slave, when death shall come to you as the softest clemency of heaven?” “Whatever indignity you are pleased to place upon this flesh, madam,” said the King coldly, “it will be less than its merit for having permitted itself to fall into such hands.” At this speech, and the demeanour by which it was accompanied, the Countess Sylvia quivered all over with passion; and had the King been near to her, and a sword been ready to her hand, I think he had been spared that which was to befall him, for there and then he must have breathed his last. You will not need to be told, gentle reader, that while these passages were toward, the Count of Nullepart and I preserved a demeanour of the gravest propriety. Yet, could we have forgotten that the actors in this play were two of the most considerable persons of their age, and that their interview was like to have an extremely tragic issue, I think we must have yielded a little to mirth. For could anything have been more wanton than the addresses they paid to one another when the life of each might be said to depend on the other’s clemency.