“One of these days,” she said at last, “I shall bring an army into this city; one of these days this fair town shall be mine. You see, my friend, I stand next to my father; I am heiress of all his demesne. And I do tell you, my friend, that when the Countess Sylvia comes to her inheritance, and good soldiers and good treasure are at her beck, she will ride on a milk-white courser at the head of more than a thousand beautiful fighting soldiers, each clad in a corslet of steel as bright as a mirror, with a long white plume in his cap, and the motto of her house painted in scarlet upon a cloth of white camlet upon his breast. And she shall sack this fair city, and see to it that all Jews, heretics, and Moriscoes are put to the sword. And this snuffling old priest, this archbishop who at present holds the city in her despite, she will nail by the ears to that gate yonder--do you not see it, my friend, peeping out of the cork trees beside yonder fountain which hath the water playing?” “Upon my soul,” said the Count of Nullepart, holding in his horse to give a better scope to his gravity, “I never heard a speech so full of statesmanship. Do I speak the future Queen of Castile, I wonder? Do I speak the future Queen of all Spain?” “My thoughts are not concerned with so large a title, sir; I do but desire that my father defend his right and that I defend mine.” “Yet you would quell the archbishop, most noble countess,” said the Count of Nullepart, laughing softly. “That is not because I am covetous, sir, but because I have my ideas. It is a presumption for a priest to hold a city. Let him keep to the burning of heretics, and draw a revenue from the Holy Synod, not hold a demesne in fee to the prejudice of his betters.” “Well, madam,” said the Count of Nullepart, beginning to shake in his saddle, “more advanced views I never heard put forward by a lady of eighteen. If the ladies of future ages are to be of such stern clay as yours, I foresee that there will be neither religions, dynasties, nor empires upon the face of the globe. I foresee the day to be at hand when everything of my unfortunate sex will be put to the sword, and trunk hose will cease to be the pledge of a valiant simplicity.” The Count of Nullepart, who for all his melancholy and sad look, was much addicted to laughter, kept chuckling in a stealthy manner at these speeches of our fair companion. And she, dear soul, was far from observing him, being engrossed too deeply in her own designs; besides, such an air as she wore would have rendered it impossible for her to believe that any person could have been excited to mirth by her conversation.