“John Castilian,” said the Englishman, “you speak in the wise of an unfortunate famous ancestor of mine own. He was called Sir Procrastinatus, owing to the unlucky habit of his mind that he continually put off till the morrow that which he should have done the day; a habit that in the process of nature grew upon the unlucky wight in such a measure that upon the last day of his life he failed to die until after his friends had buried him. Can it be, John Castilian, that yourself is a victim to a like preoccupancy? For I understand from madam’s gracious ladyship that your trench hath been dug the last three days in the kitchen midden.” “No, no, Sirrah Red Dragon, that is not so,” said madam ruthlessly. “The spawn of darkness is entitled to no burial. We will hang it upon a fork on the outer barbican to poison the crows and the vultures and the unclean fowls of the air.” “A thousand pardons, ladyship,” said Sir Richard Pendragon. “It appears I am the victim of a misinformation.” “Do you avise us, Sirrah Red Dragon, so that the bloody-minded prince shall begin his dying immediately. But we would have him take not less than one-and-twenty days to the consummation of it, for we would have him drain the dregs of the cup he hath prepared for others.” It was here, however, that Sir Richard Pendragon began to stroke his beard. Mad he was, and whimsical, yet beyond all things he had a mind for affairs. Therefore he was fain to speak aside with the Count of Nullepart and myself. “By my troth,” he said, “it would be a happy deliverance of a bad man if John Castilian was hung on the gate with a spike through his neck. But grievously do I doubt me of the wisdom of the policy. We are but three hundred men-at-arms, and Castile is a broad dominion. If we put out the life of this prince, the queen-mother will gather new forces and come again to the gate. And honest Dickon is fain to observe that the old bitch wolf will be found with a longer tooth than the whelp.” That this was the voice of wisdom we had no thought to deny. Therefore it behoved us to spread the light of statecraft before our mistress. Yet, as you will readily believe, such a task was no light one. Still, accomplished it must be, although he who would turn a woman aside from her vengeance may be said to take his life in his hand. Sir Richard Pendragon, however, was the last man in the world to blench before the face of danger. And so, with a most humble civility that rendered the sinister laughter of his eyes the more formidable, he addressed the Countess Sylvia. “Madam,” said he, “was old honest Dickon dreaming o’ nights when he heard the grace of your ladyship’s nobility declare that he might command her anything?” The fair damask cheek of our mistress grew again like that of a carnation; again were her eyes filled with proud shining. “You heard aright, Sirrah Red Dragon,” she said softly. “It is my desire that you command me anything.”