The duke was an old man with a beard of silver, frail, and little in his person, and of an ascetic, yet, as I make bold to think, a somewhat peevish countenance. He rose upon our entry and bowed in so sublime a manner as at once to make it clear that here was the pink and mirror of a Spanish gentleman; one whose mind was grave and lofty, and whose person was garnished with fine graces. A piece of old punctilio he was, according to my companion, yet when he left his chair and took a few steps towards us, to confer upon us an additional grace of welcome, his form seemed to have been wedded to silk and silver all its days, such was the ease with which it bore them; he seemed to move to music; while when he brought himself to business, it appeared to my disordered mind, dazzled as it was with so much glamour, that his lightest word became a proclamation and his frown an executioner. Sir Richard Pendragon, however, was far from having this awe of him. It filled me with dismay to see this person of foreign nationality passage with the duke for all the world as if he were of an equal condition. “I trust I find the grace of your lordship in pretty good health,” said the English giant; and it relieved me much to observe that he had the good manners to pull off his bonnet, and to bow not ungracefully when he addressed the duke in this fashion. “I find myself in good health, I thank you, sir,” said the duke coldly and simply. “You bear a communication from my nephew Castile, I understand?” “I am glad your excellency understands that,” said the Englishman, “for burn my five wits if I do!” “Will you deign to explain this matter?” said the duke, and it turned me faint in my spirit to see a sudden light of anger flame across his eyes. “If I mentioned your nephew Castile, may I never drink sack out of a bombard again,” said the Englishman. “Bimbos,” said the duke, turning to the dwarf, who was grinning like a jackanapes behind him, “do you go to Don Luiz and bring him here instantly.” It was clear that the duke was a man of choler by the irascibility of his words. Don Luiz came immediately. There was trepidation in his mien. “This person,” said the duke, “informs us that he bears no communication from our nephew the Castilian.” “Under your favour, excellency,” said the Englishman, “your mind although virtuously given and an ornament to your age and country, appears to have led you into some sort of confusion. English Richard, honest man, never spoke of Castile your nephew; he would scorn to speak of such a scurvy rogue, but rather did he mention your lordship’s lord and master.” “My lord,” said the fat Don Luiz, speaking with a most ponderous impressiveness, “my words shall be these. This gentleman informed me at the gate that he was the bearer of a message from the King, and on that ground demanded audience in quite a peremptory manner.”