“She speaks like a queen!” cried the English giant, with a roar of delight. “Betty Tucker, if thine ear doth not burn with jealousy as thou drawest that pot of small ale for that low jack pudding with a ring in his lug, thou art no true woman. Thou little knowest, good Bet o’ the Bib and Tucker--a weak jest, yet of mine own contrivance--thou little knowest the imminent danger of our banns that were asked five years come Maundy Thursday at St. Clement’s Church in London City.” “Sirrah Red Dragon,” said the Countess Sylvia with a sternness that cowed the English barbarian, “cease your babblements. You are a big man, but you talk too much. Accompany me to the master armourer and help inhabit me in a corslet and a steel cap; and if you will not use the same bulk of language that you have of inches, you shall choose me a good honest blade that I may bear in mine hand.” “By cock,” cried Sir Richard Pendragon, “she speaks as shrewishly as Betty when she hath been drinking cognac.” The English giant, who might have borne the little Countess Sylvia within the sleeve of his jerkin, accompanied her to the armoury with a spreading yet withal something of a crestfallen air. When they had passed the Count of Nullepart sat himself down on a settle, and with a face twisted with mirth took forth his instrument and strove to improvise a melody. Three times did he essay to do so and three times did he fail. “I am laughing myself into my tomb,” said he. “That is why I am so thin and frail, my dear Don Miguel. All my days I have been cursed with a passion for laughter, and it wears me to the bone. Oh, my good soul! do you not hear his lordship’s grace beating his loud tattoos upon yonder panel?” “Do you still believe, dear Count of Nullepart, that our adorable one will evanish into the air?” “Yes, my friend, so far as she is any concern of ours. That English giant will carry her off.” “Never, Sir Count, as I am a caballero. He is a barbarian, an uncivil Goth, a rude fellow. Besides, hath she not already punished the presumption of his speech?” “She is a woman, dear Don Miguel, and remark me, she will do something whimsical. You and I, my dear, are men of the first ton, as they say at Paris, but this barbarous giant, this ruffling English swaggerer, is already the apple of that fine bright eye. Mark me, dear Don Miguel, he is the hero. Did she ask you to choose a piece for her head at the armoury and a sword for her hand; did she ask me? Not so, my dear friend. She asks this gigantic island Goth, this swaggerer. And there you have the whole of the female woman. Her mind resembles nothing so much as a game of dice. None shall dare to predict what is turned up in it: the double six at the first cast, at the second the double one.”