"My son," she said, "'if the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!' These are not my words, but His that died for thee."
And without another word, she glided back to her seat.
"Margot," said I, when she came to undress me, "is my body or my soul me?"
"To fall and bruise yourself, Damoiselle, would tell you the one," said she; "and to receive some news that grieved you bitterly would show you the other."
"Messire Renaud de Montluc says that only my soul is me; and that my body does not exist at all,—it only seems to be."
"Does he say the same of his own body?"
"Oh yes; of all."
"Wait till he has fleshed his maiden sword," said Margot. "If he come into my Damoiselle's hands for surgery[#] with a broken leg and a sword-cut on the shoulder, let her ask him, when she has dressed them, whether his body be himself or not."
[#] All ladies were taught surgery, and practised it, at this date.
"Oh, he says that pain is only imagination," said I. "If he chose to imagine that he had no pain, it would stop."