‘I’m not damsel-errant of romance, as thou and Elleen would fain be,’ said Jean.
‘Nay,’ said Margaret, ‘love is not mere romance. And oh, sister, credit me, a Scots lassie’s heart craves better food than crowns and coronets. Hard and unco’ cold be they, where there is no warmth to meet the yearning soul beneath, that would give all and ten times more for one glint of a loving eye, one word from a tender lip.’ Again she had one of those hysteric bursts of tears, but she laughed herself back, crying, ‘But what is the treason wifie saying of her gudeman—her Louis, that never yet said a rough word to his Meg?’
Then came another laugh, but she gathered herself up at a summons to come down and mount.
She was tenderly embraced by all, King Rene kissing her and calling her his dear niece and princess of minstrelsy, who should come to him at Toulouse and bestow the golden violet.
She rode away, looking back smiling and kissing her hand, but Eleanor’s eyes grew wide and her cheeks pale.
‘Jean,’ she murmured, low and hoarsely, ‘Margaret’s shroud is up to her throat.’
‘Hoots with thy clavers,’ exclaimed Jeanie in return. ‘I never let thee sing that fule song, but Meg’s fancies have brought the megrims into thine head! Thou and she are pair.’
‘That we shall be nae longer,’ sighed Eleanor. ‘I saw the shroud as clear as I see yon cross on the spire.’