The weight of her accoutrements rendered it necessary to lift the Countess Sylvia to the saddle, and there was almost a brawl among her three devoted followers before this could be arranged. The Count of Nullepart had the most address, the English barbarian had the most power, and I myself, if I may make bold to say so, had the most tenacity. Yet in the end, I believe, each one of us could claim a share in this courteous operation. The subject of this attention, although mishandled in some sort, yet retained a superb dignity and composure through it all; and so far was she from visiting this procedure with a reproof, that it did not seem to afford her the least displeasure. In the great patio of the castle it was a glorious sight to see the duke’s three hundred men-at-arms ranged around in a single file. The bright sun wantoned brilliantly upon their arms and breastplates, and when the Countess Sylvia rode into their midst, almost obscured in armour except for the tip of her chin, the tip of her nose, a piece of a damask cheek, and two clear and masterful eyes that glanced from under their steel canopy with the brightness of the sword she bore in her hand, they raised a cry from their honest throats. For they had seen enough to be aware that beauty and genius reigned in that proud mien. She took her place in their midst with the Count of Nullepart, Sir Richard Pendragon, and Don Miguel Jesus Maria de Sarda y Boegas beside her with drawn swords. Such a flashing and noble glance as she directed along each row could never before have met these men-at-arms. “Sirrah Red Dragon,” she said, “do you remove my headpiece that I may speak them better.” When the English giant lifted the steel canopy off her ears, and these warriors, for the most part mercenaries, beheld so much beauty and disdain, they raised another cry in her honour, for indeed there never was a more superb thing. “Lieges and virtuous bearers of my sword,” she said in her clear and spreading speech, “from this day I am your captain. I will lead ye truly through all the strait places. When the culverin bellows, the caliver barks, and the good Toledo blades flash and clang together, you will find me on my milk-white courser in the forefront of the battle, vindicating mine own right with mine own puissance. There is a great work toward, for our cousin John, the rude Castilian prince, bids us deliver this fair castle into his covetous hand. But I do tell thee, my honest lieges, it shall not be so. I have good servants; they shall strike shrewd blows; and if the rude Castilian enters this castle, if enter he must, he shall come in chains as a captive, or there shall not be a stick or a stone or a breathing soul to give him welcome.”