“So I did, brother, so I did,” said the Englishman. “You cursed Spaniards are so dull that I am obliged to speak peremptory if I speak at all.” “Further, my lord,” said Don Luiz, passing over this scandalous interruption with immense disdain, “he declared himself to be the emissary of that great King who at this moment held, as it were, your lordship’s grace in the hollow of his hand. Now, it was perfectly clear to me, your lordship, that there is only one king whose might is of this nature, which is him of Castile, your lordship’s nephew. Thus, under your grace’s favour, was I justified, I think.” “Ods my life!” said the duke, addressing my companion with the greatest irascibility, “if I find you have perverted your speech in this particular, or that you think to make a toy of such as I, sirrah, I will undertake to show you how far you are astray by having you broke upon the wheel.” When the angry duke spoke these last terrible words he exalted his voice into such an accent as rendered them truly affrighting to my ears. Straight I fell into a violent trembling on the Englishman’s account; but he, steadfast man, did not abate a whit of his easy smiling. As he looked at the threatful duke his red eyes seemed to be full of a furtive and whimsical humour. “No, by my soul,” he said, “this is not politeness, at least as we of England understand that quality. Wheel? No matter where I travel in this unholy land of Spain, the parish that I come to is a scurvy one. Wheel? Duke or donkey driver, it is nothing to the matter, all are tainted with incivility. Wheel? Why, duke, my message is ‘Be thou of good courage,’ and He who sends it thee is that great King of Heaven who holds thee in the hollow of His hand. Do you pause and think upon it, duke.” The duke obeyed him in this particular, for certes he paused and thought upon it much. And while this he did with a deal of gravity, the wheel rose up before my eyes and I could feel my bones being broken on it. For was ever such audacity since the beginning of the world! CHAPTER XI OF A GRIEVOUS HAP THOUGH an old little man, wizened like a pea, and peevish in his manners, the duke was wonderfully impressive in his look. He stood up as straight as a tree, and kept peering at the Englishman with a grave eye, as if in meditation upon the drastic form of his punishment. Yet all of a sudden, and quite strangely and oddly, a sharp kind of crackling and barking came out of him; as near, I suppose, to a chuckle of mirth as one of such dignity could allow himself to emit. “Ha! ha!” he cackled. “Ods myself! good fellow, this is a roguish jest of yours. But daring, don’t you think, but daring? Yet a roguish jest.” So great was my concern for the exceeding delicacy of the issue that at first the words of the duke seemed of no account. My mind could not address itself to their meaning, but could only marvel that so great a man should repeat his phrases.