We halted at a large inn that lay between the mighty ancient palace of the Moors and the church of San Juan de los Reyes, and had an admirable breakfast. And we were in need of it, since we had been riding hard all night. Now, we had no sooner come to this inn, which was more considerable than any in which we had lain, than I was sensible of a change in the demeanour of my companion. In our journey through the wilderness he had conversed with me familiarly, had treated me as equal as in accordance with my birth; but no sooner were we come into this fair city and this good inn than he fell into hectoring speech, as though I were a menial, and whispered to me privily to call him my lord. “But, Sir Richard Pendragon,” I protested, “your degree does not warrant me in it.” “By my hand!” said he, “you must not talk of degree to me, you varlet. Do you not know that in England any person who has a king’s blood under his doublet is called a lord by courtesy.” To this I demurred not a little, but Sir Richard Pendragon would brook no denial. “A king’s blood,” said he, “takes a courtesy title wherever it goes. If I lie in Dresden I am called your excellency; at Rome, monseigneur; the same at Paris; in Persia, in Russia, in Turkey, throughout the length and breadth of Europe and Asia I am allowed my merit.” In the end I was fain to submit to these considerations, although I confess it irked me sorely to apply such a title to one who, according to his style, was no more than a knight. But I had to content myself with Sir Richard Pendragon’s own reflection that a king’s blood is subject to no precedent, and by its own virtue confers its own nobility. And certainly had he been a prince of the blood-royal of his country, his conduct at this inn could not have been more remarkable. I had to eat at another table; he even went so far as to swear at me roundly in a foreign jargon; yet the thing that hurt me was, that he was careful to let those who heard him know that his servant was a scion of an old and honourable Spanish family. “I think, good Don,” he said in my private ear, “your condition would warrant me in looking upon you as what the French call an equerry. It would not come amiss if you served behind my chair at meals, laying a white cloth across your arm and setting the various dishes before me with a solemn demeanour. And I would have you say ‘yes, my lord,’ and ‘no, your lordship,’ in a rather louder voice, in order that there should be no mistake about it. It will not sound amiss in the ears of innkeepers in a large way of trade, and that sort of people.”