‘Ay; but too fine-spun, too minstrel-like, for a plain English maid. The hobgoblins should eat out his heart ere they touched me!’ she repeated to herself, as though the saying were the most poetical concert sung on minstrel lover’s lute.
Death’s Dance had certainly brought this affianced pair to a better understanding than all the gayest festivities of the Court.
Esclairmonde would have been happy if no one had noticed her benevolence to the young Scot save Alice Montagu; but she had to endure countless railleries from every lady, from Countess Jaqueline downwards, on the unmistakable evidence that her heart had spoken; and her grave dignity had less effect in silencing them than usual, so diverting was the alleged triumph over her propriety, well as they knew that she would have done the same for the youngest horse-boy, or the oldest man-at-arms.
CHAPTER X: THE WHITSUNTIDE FESTIVAL
‘Lady, fairest lady! Ah, suffer your slave to fall at your feet with his thanks!’
‘No thanks are due, Sir. I knew not who had fallen.’
‘Cruel coyness! Take not away the joy that has fed a hungry heart.’
‘Lord Glenuskie’s heart was wont to hunger for better joys.’
‘Lady, I have ceased to be a foolish boy.’
‘Such foolishness was better than some men’s wisdom.’