UPON his own part Sir Richard Pendragon showed a wonderful calmness. He wore the ring upon his finger with so great an air, and withal was so polite that the forcing of a quarrel was put out of the question. None the less it was clear that if ever I was to recover my father’s gift it must be at the point of the sword. It is always claimed, however, by the natives of my province, which in the things of the mind is allowed to be the first in all Spain, that a cool judgment must ride before violence. Therefore I was in no haste to push the matter to an extremity. My mind was set that I could only regain possession of the trinket by an appeal to the sword; that soon or late we must submit ourselves to that arbitrament, but as the night was yet in its youth, I felt there was no need to force the brawl before its season. Thus, nursing my injury in secret I marked the man narrowly as he sat his stool, with his hungry eyes forever trained upon me sideways, and forever glancing down with furtive laughter, while his great lean limbs in their patched, parti-coloured hose, in which the weather had wrought various hues, were sprawled out towards the warmth of the chimney. As thus he lay it was hard to decide whether he was indeed a king’s son or no more than a fluent-spoken adventurer. And in spite of the flattering opinions he put forward of his own character, I was fain to come to it that the latter conclusion was at least very near to the truth. For one thing, the lack of seriousness in his demeanour did not consort very well with the descendant of princes, whom all the world knows to be grave men. He never so much as looked towards me without a secret light of mirth in his eye; and this I was unable to account for, as for myself I had never felt so grave. “Sir Richard Pendragon, knight,” said he, for no particular reason, unless it were the love of hearing his own discourse; “of all names I believe that to be the most delectable; for it is the name of a true man, of one addicted to contemplation, and of one who has grown old in the love of virtue. Sir Richard Pendragon, knight--a name is a small thing, but it has its natural music; Sir Richard Pendragon, knight--yes, it runs off the tongue to a tune. I think, my young companion, you have already admired it?” “Indeed, sir, I have,” said I, with a certain measure of mockery, of which, upon occasion, those of my province are said to be adept in the use. “I conceive it to be a most wonderful name. Have you not said so yourself?”