The King of Castile was indeed a bitter enemy, and he had the name of a merciless prince. Therefore in the fortunes of war he was entitled to small consideration, yet the worshipful Count of Nullepart, as tardily enough he went forth to do the bidding of his mistress, was yet a person of civility and of a philosophical enlightenment which was only possible to one of the foremost minds of the age. Thus, upon taking counsel with myself upon the subject, the worshipful Count of Nullepart had recourse to a subterfuge, which, however, must have placed his own ears, if not his life, in jeopardy. Instead of obeying this severe ordination, he went and hid himself against the time when madam should have forgot her resolve. How far this expedient served the Count of Nullepart will presently be shown. At noon, as madam still watched from the battlements, refusing all food, and suffering none to come near her, she summoned the Count of Nullepart again. As he was not to be found, she had me brought to her, and with much sternness bade me “go immediately and cut off the head of the bloody-minded prince.” Now, though the peril of the act was so great, I was fully determined to follow the course I had enjoined upon the Count of Nullepart. But suddenly the Countess Sylvia uttered a shrill cry, and then it was seen she had already ceased to regard her recent order. Calling me back to her side, she bade me look out over the battlements, and tell her what I saw. And that which I had to inform her was that a mounted company was approaching through the plain. For more than an hour we stood at gaze, seeking to discern who this might be. Howbeit, so slowly, and, as it seemed, so wearily, did the cavalcade come towards us, that at the end of that period it appeared hardly to have made a league. Yet, as we stood with our eyes forever strained upon the bright sunlight, and with I know not what wild speculations in our brains, I think I never saw our noble mistress with such a signal beauty in her mien. None dared speak to her as the tardy minutes passed. At gaze upon the topmost pinnacle of the conning-tower, with her small and slender woman’s form tense as an arrow upon a bow, so that it seemed to poise itself midway between the green plain and the blue sky, all the ardour of her soul seemed to merge in her glance. It was as though her proud heart was overmounted in the yearning for victory. It was from the lips of our mistress, and by the agency of her two thought-wingèd eyes, that the glad news proclaimed itself. “’Tis he,” she said softly; “’tis him of England. It is Sirrah Red Dragon, the sweet giant, the valiant foreigner!”