“Then old honest Dickon, a good fellow, kisses your small feet and makes you a leg, peerless rose of the south, and he asks for the life of John Castilian.” The bosom of our mistress heaved rebelliously. Tears of mortified caprice crept into her eyes. With contempt and bitterness she cast a glance at the King, who stood in mournful converse with his ministers. She then confronted her great captain. “Sirrah Red Dragon,” she said in accents that were choked by a rage of tears, “do you take the life of the spawn of darkness. Use it as you will, sirrah. It was you that gave it to me; it is meet that you should receive it back again. I do not ask upon what pretext you would hold it; but--but, sirrah,” and her whole form quivered strangely, “I do ask--I do ask, sirrah, is this the whole of your good pleasure?” Yet no sooner had she spoke those last unlucky words, and, as it were, laid bare her proud bosom, than she averted her beautiful cheeks that were like a scarlet rose, and in the sudden wild rage of her own weakness, that she whom kings must woo in vain had come herself to woo, she hid her eyes. “Nay, by the soul of a nice mother,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, “this is but a moiety of what her good son would ask you. Having received the life of John Castilian, he would ask your permission, madam, that in some sort he may punish him, for you need not to be told that his crimes are many and abominable.” “As you say, Sirrah Red Dragon, his crimes are many and abominable,” said the Countess Sylvia. “I would indeed have you punish him. I would have you punish him with all possible rigour.” Speaking thus, she gazed at the unfortunate prince with a power of resentment that he, who was true to his degree, met with a calm indifferency. “All possible rigour,” said Sir Richard Pendragon softly, “is indeed the best part of the design of your old honest servant. And to that end, madam, I would ask to deliver John Castilian to you again in order that you may bestow this dreadful rigor upon him.” “It is well, Sirrah Red Dragon,” said his mistress. “In this you are wise. We shall know in what sort to visit the spawn of darkness and bloody-minded prince.” “And yet, madam,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, “by the grace of your ladyship is it not left to old honest Dickon to nominate the weapons of your severity?” “Pray do so, Sirrah Red Dragon,” said madam with a courteous indulgence. “But perhaps you will not omit to weigh the efficacy upon delicate flesh of hot sharp-pointed nails? And also of hard pieces of rock upon the sensitive limb bones?” “Nay, madam,” said Sir Richard Pendragon, “a good mother’s son forgets not the efficacy of these honest things; yet, under the favour of your ladyship, if he is minded to speak out of his ripe observation, this elderly seeker after virtue would venture to recommend an even more dreadful rigour, a rigour even more salutary.” “By every manner of means, Sirrah Red Dragon, I would have you recommend it.”