THE proud tears were still in the eyes of our mistress, when she looked all about her swiftly with the features of a hawk. In ringing tones she cried, “Bring forth the spawn of darkness. We will now arrange his fate.” When the Count of Nullepart and myself made to obey this command, as you will believe, gentle reader, we had grave concern lest madam should observe the presence of the captive’s ears. And such was her present humour that I think we did well to have apprehension of the penalty that might overtake us. Greatly doubtful, we led forth the Castilian from his durance and brought him into the room. The King of Castile entered the presence of his victorious adversaries with a calm and noble smile. Yet no sooner did his gaze fall upon the grey-bearded noblemen with halters about their necks than his eyes drooped, and a great anguish seemed to cloud them. The relentless eyes of madam were fixed upon her foe. “Dost thou see them, bloody-minded one?” said she. “These old bears shall have the fangs drawn out of their chaps so that they shall bite no more.” Then, like a veritable sovereign princess, she turned to Sir Richard Pendragon, to whom all the success of her arms was due. “Avise us, Sirrah Red Dragon. Avise us in what manner we shall cast out these several parcels of beastliness that encumber the earth.” “By our lady!” said the English giant, rubbing the palm of one hand slowly round that of the other, “if that is not my honest gossip, John Castilian, I am a poor mad soul! English Richard gives a greeting to you, John Castilian, a greeting to your most excellent King’s majesty.” Upon this speaking, Sir Richard Pendragon was like to crack his head on the ground with his lowly obeisance. Although the King of Castile seemed all broken by the disaster that had overtaken his arms, upon hearing the voice of Sir Richard Pendragon he looked up and received his mockery with an unflinching glance. “Foreign robber,” he said simply, “you have borne yourself as a true captain. I make you my service. And as the life of myself and the lives of my honourable friends are forfeit to your cunning I hope that they may profit you.” These words, spoken only as a King could deliver them, brought a sort of whimsical pity to the mocking face of the English barbarian. “Dost thou remember, John Castilian,” he said, with that softness which the Count of Nullepart and I knew was wont to accompany his most ferocious designs, “that summer’s morning a twelvemonth since, when thou flungest one of a gentle and kindly nurture, a good mother’s son, into the deepest dungeon of your Spanish palace, and chained him by the leg, with foul straws for his pillow, and with lean rats and large beetles for his only familiar company?” “Yes, foreign robber, I remember it to my sorrow,” said the King of Castile coldly. “And had I broke you upon the wheel and thrown your corpse to the dogs a day before my reckoning, I should not now be mourning for not having done so.”