“Why, I will answer you. Out of their terror they will be moved to revolt against you, unless you relieve them of the ban. Thus, Lord Prince, I hold you in check. You make submission or else you are destroyed.” Affonso Henriques considered him a moment. “You answer me indeed,” said he, and then his voice swelled up in denunciation. “But this is statecraft, not religion. And when a prince has no statecraft to match that which is opposed to him, do you know what follows? He has recourse to force, Lord Cardinal. You compel me to it; upon your own head the consequences.” The legate almost sneered. “What is the force of your poor lethal weapons compared with the spiritual power I wield? Do you threaten me with death? Do you think I fear it?” He rose in a surge of sudden wrath, and tore open his scarlet robe. “Strike here with your poniard. I wear no mail. Strike if you dare, and by the sacrilegious blow destroy yourself in this world and the next.” The Infante considered him. Slowly he sheathed his dagger, smiling a little. Then he beat his hands together. His men-at-arms came in. “Seize me those two Roman whelps,” he commanded, and pointed to Giannino and Pierlulgi. “Seize them, and make them fast. About it!” “Lord Prince!” cried the legate in a voice of appeal, wherein fear and anger trembled. It was the note of fear that heartened Affonso Henriques. “About it!” he cried again, though needlessly, for already his men-at-arms were at grips with the Cardinal’s nephews. In a trice the kicking, biting, swearing pair were overpowered, deprived of arms, and pinioned. The men looked to their prince for further orders. In the background Moniz and Nunes witnessed all with troubled countenances, whilst the Cardinal, beyond the table, white to the lips, demanded in a quavering voice to know what violence was intended, implored the Infante to consider, and in the same breath threatened him with dread consequences of this affront. Affonso Henriques, unmoved, pointed through the window to a stalwart oak that stood before the inn. “Take them out there, and hang them unshriven,” he commanded. The Cardinal swayed, and almost fell forward. He clutched the table, speechless with terror for those lads who were as the very apple of his eye, he who so fearlessly had bared his own breast to the steel. The two comely Italian youths were dragged out writhing in their captors’ hands. At last the half-swooning legate found his voice. “Lord Prince,” he gasped. “Lord Prince... you cannot do this infamy! You cannot! I warn you that... that...” The threat perished unuttered, slain by mounting terror. “Mercy! Have mercy, lord! as you hope for mercy!” “What mercy do you practice, you who preach a gospel of mercy in the world, and cry for mercy now?” the Infante asked him. “But this is an infamy! What harm have those poor children done? What concern is it of theirs that I have offended you in performing my sacred duty?”