The nurse said, “True it is, O Queen, that most were of my thinking when I gave ’em my choice: the king of Demonland.”
“Fie on thee!” cried Prezmyra. “Name him not so that was too unmighty to hold that land against our enemies.”
“Folk say it was by foxish arts and practices magical a was spilt on Krothering Side. Folk say ’twas divels and not horses carried the Demons down the mountain at us.”
“They say!” cried Prezmyra. “I say to thee, he hath found it apter to his bent to flaunt his crown in Witchland than make ’em give him the knee in Galing. For a true king both knee and heart do truly bow before him. But this one, if he had their knee ’twas in the back side of him he had it, to kick him home again.”
“Fie, madam!” said the nurse.
“Hold thy tongue, nurse,” said Prezmyra. “It were good ye were all well whipped for a bunch of silly mares that know not a horse from an ass.”
The old woman watching her in the glass counted it best keep silence. Prezmyra said under her breath as if talking to herself, “I know a man, should not have miscarried it thus.” The old nurse that loved not Lord Corund and his haughty fashions and rough speech and wine-bibbing, and was besides jealous that so rude a stock should wear so rich a jewel as was her mistress, followed not her meaning.
After some time, the old woman spake softly and said, “You are full of thoughts to-night, madam.”
Prezmyra’s eyes met hers in the mirror. “Why may I not be so and it likes me?” said she.
That stony look of the eyes struck like a gong some twenty-year-old memory in the nurse’s heart: the little wilful maiden, ill to goad but good to guide, looking out from that Queen’s face across the years. She knelt down suddenly and caught her arms about her mistress’s waist. “Why must you wed then, dear heart?” said she, “if you were minded to do what likes you? Men love not sad looks in their wives. You may ride a lover on the curb, madam, but once you wed him ’tis all t’other way: all his way, madam, and beware of ‘had I wist.’”