“Nay,” philosophized a third, “kings have their whimsies like the rest of the world and love to make folk uncomfortable.”
“Humph!” said a stalwart fellow as he sped. “If I had an odd life or two to spare I would strike a stroke for the child.”
“Ay,” grunted his companion, “and be damned for your pains if she be no better than a black witch.”
“I cannot believe it,” stalwart said, stoutly.
His companion was positive.
“They say there’s no mortal doubt of the matter. She fondles a black cat, her familiar, and straddles a broomstick for a sky-ride when the wind is howling.”
A listener commented briskly. “Nay, then it is no worse than very well that she should die. For my part, I cannot abide cats since my neighbor’s grimalkin stole my sausage.”
And so they hurried on gossiping, a stream of humanity climbing to its appointed places. Languidly through the crowd moved Lycabetta with her women.
“Truly,” Lycabetta said to Lysidice, “the King is ever a good friend to us. We shall sit in the royal quarter and see as well as any of the courtly wantons. It is a warm day, but I swear I shall feel a cold at my heart till I can warm my palms at the girl blazing.”